Wash Away
by Greenway
Summary: His life was resting on a knife edge; the blade held firmly in fate’s fickle fist. And the only person he believed could save him from the inevitable was the girl he cruelly tormented for six long years. DMHG
1. Prologue

Upon his reflection Draco Malfoy observed an expression unlike any other. Within the expression were traces of vague characteristics that once defined him; an inner identity that now withered away steadily, until the coldness that lingered in his very stare was not a cunning façade, but testimony to his soul. A great deal of time had passed since last he indulged in narcissism, for he found that its wonders ceased. Instead he took comfort in the bleak oblivion; an unwavering truth on which he could always rely.

What breathed beyond the window ledge- a mild October day, full of sunlight, but absent was the warmth- mattered little. Likewise irrelevant were the machinations of those with him in the library. All that struck him, consumed him, was the truth; for those other things were illusionary, reminiscent of reality but deceitful all the same. It was indeed disquieting, but it told him the very thing he longed to hear.

Life was wretched.

Crude as it was, an expression of distaste towards existence itself, it reminded him of what was lost. What once existed in the heart-shaped void which weighed heavy on his bosom. He sought to strike a chord, to awake what was once consciousness. Its mutilation all but eternal, what faith he had left reserved for its restoration.

"What am I doing here?" Draco sighed his frustration, his voice overwhelmingly weary.

"Hold that thought," Blaise Zabini muttered back.

The furious scratching of Zabini's quill pervaded the stillness about him, stirring his focus from the criss-cross pattern of varnished wood intersecting through the window pane and bringing him down to earth. Draco wasn't one to flatter another, unless that person was outspoken in their own appreciation for him. Still, one thing could be said for Zabini; he was always there when you needed him, and often when you didn't.

In years gone by they had shared an amiable acquaintance. Greeting one another in the corridor, sharing the odd game of Wizard chess in the common room, but never had they been particularly great friends. That changed after the War, when certain events forced him to rethink existing relationships.

Crabbe, Goyle and Nott each served as a reminder of the atrocities committed before his very eyes. Zabini had been there, amongst the Death Eater ranks, but obligation, and not desire, governed him. The other three held an unwavering belief in their cause, and despite their _redemption_ and readmission into Hogwarts, they were anything but rehabilitated men. There were others to whom he was perhaps tied, but no longer did he give them time of day.

What Zabini provided, in his capacity as a friend, was intelligent conversation, crucial to restoring an ailing psyche to its former glory. No longer could he rely solely on the confines of his own mind when manoeuvring life's many obstacles. He needed outside help, dictation, in order to overcome that which he once shrugged off with supercilious ease.

His helplessness stemmed not from a lack of intellect, or even understanding. When he searched his mind for answers to questions that exhausted the forefront of his thought process, he felt a great loss, a numbness, and the silence pained him. There was a time when he received answers to his questions- bloody good ones, too- and the natural progression helped him to avoid relying on others.

Suddenly he had developed into not much more than an emotionally crippled teenager, who without someone to lean upon would literally crumble under a non-existent- but nevertheless prevalent- weight upon his shoulders. It sickened him, literally, to acknowledge something so degrading, but Zabini was a bastion of strength when he needed one most.

Before he knew it, Zabini was stood by his side, and he too feigned an interest in the outside view.

"You alright, mate?" Blaise asked delicately, and Draco had to wonder more so about his own diminishing vigor. "You look a little lost."

"Do I?"

"Like you're somewhere else entirely," Blaise shrugged.

"Blaise-" Draco paused, turning to look his obliging friend in the eye. "Are you of the school of thought that when cornered, stuck in a dire situation, you're justified to initiate resolution, no matter cause or effect?"

Blaise raised an inquisitive eyebrow.

"Or-" Draco continued. "Do you think sometimes fate just has it in for us?"

"You're being vague, Draco. And you needn't be so hypothetical; it's not like I don't know who you're talking about. If you want help, you're going to have to elaborate."

Draco half-smiled, "The little I do know isn't worth elaborating upon."

Draco turned away from Blaise, the boy's blithe expression doing little to dampen his own foul mood. There were children, first or second years, playing out by the lake. Chasing after each other like headless chickens. His own first year seemed like a painful, distant scar; a wound he could touch, perhaps even still feel, and yet he was unable to fully revisit the anguish in effect. Draco truly was numb.

The smile, the smirk, the grin- whatever chirpy expression pulled at the corner of Blaise's lips- was much like a rich man waiving his fine robes and vast wealth before the face of a considerably poorer fellow. And that was a scenario to which Draco was no stranger. But back then just the thought of it had brought him great pleasure. Now not even the act itself, or the crestfallen look upon Ron Weasley's face, was enough to lull him out of despondency.

Not a semblance of what once was remained. Whereas before apathy had been his intention, it was now a force of nature governing his every move. It was a great deal more disturbing when thrust upon you than it was as a means to an end. The time he'd spent massacring his innate empathy now seemed in vain. By fate's hand, he had become the very man he strived to be; only now that he had looked long and hard into the very depths of his soul the prospect didn't seem quite enthralling.

Killing his conscious had wide-ranging ramifications. Gone was his ruthlessness, his snide, his contempt, for now he had no vicinity into which he could cordon off his inhibitions. Reflection upon adversity left him staring into the proverbial abyss, forced to watch as it consumed his best and his worst, until all that was left was the handsome shell of a man still wandering the halls late at night, searching down dark, forgotten corridors for answers to questions that had long since passed his memory by.

The loss explained his habitually absent mind, for it instigated deliberation that without just cause would likely never end. It was the reason behind Blaise's pointed stare, his slanting eyes drawing out of Draco's expression any tangible manifestation of sentiment.

"Did you say something?" Draco stifled a yawn.

"You ought to get some sleep, Draco. Honestly, you look like shit."

"Pansy keeps trying to have sex with me," said Draco, as if the otherwise pleasant conversation had somehow been leading towards his impulsive remark.

Not often did they talk about their respective love lives, for they were both far too refined; on the rare occasions in which they did, it was Blaise who broached the subject. It was out of character, meaning Draco sought anything but a reaffirming pat on the back.

"And she gets terribly upset when I refuse," Draco continued, taking Blaise's silence as his cue. "I don't like to see her cry, nor can I bear being solely responsible; but I just can't do it. Merlin knows my libido is screaming for me to relent, but I just can't look at her like that anymore. I don't see anything worth saving."

"You'll be alright, mate," Blaise reassured, striving to compensate for his own ignorance with broad statements that might somehow suffice. "She'll be alright, too. Just give her time. She needs to adjust, and I'm sure that would be a lot easier to live with if it didn't mean losing you-"

"She's not losing me," Draco interrupted. "She really isn't. I'm still her friend, and I'm not going anywhere."

"Pansy misses you, mate. And you can't blame her."

"I think she sees that I'm miserable, and wants to help," Draco sighed. "And you know what women are like. Just because you enjoy sex it's suddenly the only thing on your mind. That's not to say I didn't once exploit her nymphomania; not at all. It got me through sixth year. But too much has changed to go back to the way things were."

For the next few moments they shared only silence, and the insipid view out onto the castle grounds below. Nothing was right, and nothing was wrong. Existence ebbed and flowed all around them and yet they- or Draco, at least- felt static amongst it all. Time ticked on, though, and the moment inevitably had to end.

"It's getting on a bit, Draco," Blaise turned his slanting eyes on his friend. "Maybe we should head down to dinner."

The corner of Draco's mouth twitched ever so slightly, a rare indication as to what lay beneath his apathetic façade. "To be honest, I was expecting you to press the matter regarding my resolution. Was your interest not sufficiently piqued?"

Blaise saw and acknowledged the blatant prompt. He knew Draco far too well to ignore the hint of buoyancy behind his otherwise cold grey eyes.

"So then, enlighten me," Blaise smirked. "What resolution do you have in mind?"

"As we speak I'm still thinking it through, so don't do what you always do and jump to any rush and unfounded conclusions."

"I wouldn't dream of it."

Draco rolled his eyes, "First let me say that yes, this plan is nonsensical, but I think that's why it'll work. It all starts with me propositioning the girl sitting by Madame Pince's desk; front and center."

Blaise cocked an eyebrow, before scanning the library for the young lady fitting Draco's description. It took a moment, and when he turned back his eyes were wide like saucers; an expression of surprise that didn't particularly suit his elegant features. "The Mudblood?! Merlin, Draco, you don't still have a thing for her, do you? That's revolting."

"Fuck off, Blaise," said Draco seriously, a harshness to his typically silky tone. His lidded eyes moved to face forward, away from his friends reproachful gaze. "For starters, it was one comment, one time. I said she was mildly attractive. And I said it in confidence. I also said that no matter my physical attraction, I wouldn't touch her if she was the last woman alive. I do not have a thing for her. I was just having an off day."

"You seem to be having an awful lot of those lately," Blaise grinned, though his mirth failed to rub off on Draco, who turned to look at him, teeth grinding together in an ugly fashion.

"You want to be funny, do you, Blaise? Now really isn't the time; but since you seem so adamant, I'm going to do you a favour. I'm going to have a joke at your expense."

"Do your worst," Blaise chuckled, entirely nonchalant. "You've got nothing."

"Had any interesting thoughts about Ginny Weasley, lately?"

The joke wasn't intended to elicit laughter, and nor did it. Blaise now matched Draco's sour look with one of his own and uncomfortable silence followed soon after. Blaise, unwilling to be bested without putting up a fight, forced a smirk onto his handsome face and narrowed his eyes. "Blood traitor trumps Mudblood, Malfoy, and even you can't argue that."

Draco allowed ample time to pass between Blaise's response and his own, so as to project an air of indifference, "Perhaps not, Zabini. But remember, two wrongs don't make a right; and so while I may be ashamed of myself, you still have no excuse."

Blaise pondered the remark, and then decided against a retort; realizing, as Draco knew he would, who it was that always came out on top when they chose to verbally joust. And Blaise's ego really didn't need bruising. Not after last time.

"So, are you going to continue?" Blaise murmured. "Or have I hurt your feelings?"

Suddenly, something rather disturbing occurred to him, and as he surveyed his friend's placid expression he had to wonder. "You're not going to ask her to go to bed with you?!" Blaise exclaimed incredulously. "Surely not, Draco!"

Draco gave a dismissive nod of this head, "Nothing like that."

Though much had changed recently, Draco still relied on flippancy to circumvent subject-matter with which he wasn't entirely comfortable. Blaise's unasked question therefore went unanswered, and he knew better than to press the issue. Soon things would become clear, and patience was a virtue.

"Hungry?"

_--- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---_

It was the last day of what was turning out to be one of the most superlative weeks of Hermione Granger's eighteen year lifespan. Meer words fell short of describing the sheer euphoria that for the last seven days had been coursing through her. Every little thing brought a smile to her lips, and in the eyes of others she saw unimaginable potential.

The second Great Wizarding War was at long last over and her friends and family had emerged from the conflict relatively unscathed, ready for progress, social evolution and the proverbial 'fresh start'. The really wonderful thing though, the icing on the cake, was that they were back at Hogwarts for what was regrettably their Seventh, and therefore final, year. Any disillusionment that brought about was whitewashed over by the honour of being made Head Girl, because with that wonderful distinction came a realization a long time in the making.

Life was glorious.

Even Harry and Ron had decided to come back to finish their schooling. Their aversion to academia notwithstanding, Hermione had fully expected them to take the year off and enjoy a deserved respite after having helped save the world. Perhaps they just wanted to get their final year out of the way. As far as Hermione was concerned the reasoning was irrelevant. She was back. Her two best friends were back. And for once they had the opportunity to have a _normal_ year at Hogwarts.

Both Harry and Ron had already scoffed at the prospect of normality, though Hermione had a feeling that Harry was perhaps rather relieved, and might just have been putting on a show for Ron by expressing his disappointment. The Boy Who Lived had endured more in seventeen years than most would in an entire lifetime. He deserved a break. He deserved to live a normal life. But most importantly of all, as far as Hermione was concerned, he deserved his happiness.

Watching Harry and Ginny Weasel make eyes at each other- while engaging in a clandestine game of _footsie_ beneath the table- was not only indicative of his burgeoning happiness, but also apparently the reason as to why he returned for his Seventh year. Hermione was perhaps slightly envious of what they had, but not so envious that it didn't bring about a goofy grin. It was incredibly sweet.

"How can you be smiling?" Ron muttered irritably, averting his gaze from the nauseating sight playing out before his eyes. "Those two are disgusting."

Hermione sighed, "Trust you to say something like that, Ronald. I mean, it's not like you and Lavender aren't shoving your tongues down each others throats at every opportunity."

And on that note, Hermione was rather relieved her dorm mate couldn't make it with them to the Great Hall. If she had to hear all about 'Won-Won' once more- just once more- she was going to snap. What made it worse was that not so long ago she only had to put up with that simpering girl sporadically, and that she could just about stomach. Having her follow them round on a daily basis- like an inbred runt at its master's heel- really tried her patience.

Ron's friendship though meant the world to her, and the last thing she wanted to do was fall out with him over his _relationship_. Just like Harry, Ron deserved his happiness. And if Lavender Brown was the one to bring that about then so be it. So what if Lavender was a nitwit? It was Ron's mistake to make.

Hermione thought she heard Ron mumble the word _jealous_ under his breath, but was in such a delightful mood that she decided she must have misheard him. Such preposterous notions were better left ignored, anyway, because the last thing she wanted was to either dignify or validate his narcissistic delusions.

If she was jealous of anything it was what the union they shared; though perhaps her envy was more appropriately directed towards Harry and Ginny. While it wasn't in her nature to crave such things, she was still rather idealistic, and she desired some sort of companion; a person into whose eyes she could look for eternal affirmation.

As spiteful as it sounded, Hermione was yet to observe the existence of such a quality between Ron and Lavender. Their relationship seemed more _physical _than anything else. Far be it from her to appoint herself moral arbitrator, but wasn't there more to it than that? How could affection, adoration, be whittled down to such rudimentary means and motives? If that was all there was to it then truly what was the point?

Hermione sighed dramatically, in what was a half-hearted attempt to jar herself free of her daydream. At that moment in time she needed neither answers nor the headache that would come about through contemplation. What she did need was to get away from Ron before she said- or did- something she might later regret.

She shot a faint smile towards Harry and Ginny, and that was they all they needed to understand the where and why of her rather abrupt exit. Ron, on the other hand, was caught between indignation and smug self-satisfaction; such was the obligatory distraction Hermione seemed to bring about in the redheaded boy. She was happy leaving him to it.

Hermione rushed out of the Great Hall, only to find that the silence and shadows of the hallway did little to quell her impending tears. What was a wonderful life and a wonderful day had quickly been ruined by inquiry into the unknown. Her overt awareness of life's inadequacies sent her once more over the proverbial edge.

Hermione was some way off breaking down and becoming a sobbing mess. Her eyes were barely damp, and it would've taken a keen eye to even discern her distress, yet it was there all the same. What mattered, at that moment in time, was her own perception. She might be able to conceal from the rest of the world what resided within, but that didn't make it go away. Burying it deep down in her subconscious meant only one thing; in her darkest moment the sorrow would consume her, and she would drown in a deep sea of self-loathing.

The library was always a good place to be in such times; quiet, dim, and all but empty. Those that did still dwell- for most people had long since given up on academia for the day- tended to keep to themselves. If someone saw fit to waste away their evening in a place of study then it was quite unlikely they would seek to prolong the unfortunate misuse of their personal time.

Hermione ignored Madam Pince upon entry, choosing instead to head straight towards her favourite corner of the library, pluck from her bag the first book that came to hand and then pretend like she was even remotely interested in its contents. Bleary eyes made reading somewhat problematic, and she was in no mood to add curriculum to her already ample woes.

For the next half an hour or so she was aware only of the table top before her; such was her desire for calm that she had allowed her focus to be consumed by a flat sheet of varnished wood. She desperately needed to snap out of her slump, but for the life of her couldn't. Any desire she had to walk away from her misery was overwhelmed by what it was that had brought her into her predicament in the first place.

"Granger?"

Her name, and the questioning tone with which it was pronounced, drew her focus from her thoughts and towards her surroundings. Her eyes- tired from staring out into space- scanned the immediate area. Fright threatened her already fragile subconscious.

"Show yourself," Hermione murmured breathlessly, her face pulled into a tense frown as she anxiously fingered the handle of her wand.

Draco Malfoy stepped out from behind a nearby bookshelf, slinking through the shadows and into the dim illumination afforded by a nearby window. Somehow Hermione had failed to notice it before but the window had been left ajar, and the cool evening breeze sent shivers down her spine.

"Oh," Hermione sighed irritably. "It's only _you_."

"Wonderful to see you too, Granger," Draco sneered.

Their eyes met across the distance, and mutual loathing burned brightest. Hermione had thought the prospect of her day getting any worse impossible. Draco Malfoy proved her wrong.

"What do you want?" said Hermione, returning to her seat and pocketing her wand. "Don't tell me this is how you get off; sneaking up on people at the backend of the library. That's low, Malfoy. Even for you."

Draco's jaw hardened in an ugly fashion that didn't much suit his pale, pointed features, "And I'm supposed to be the bully? You're going on the defensive before I've even started attacking you."

"Old habits die hard. I thought I'd get a few shots in before you started your usual _Mudblood-inferiority_ diatribe."

"Did you now…" Malfoy drawled, staring down at her from his vantage point.

"So what's this about?" Hermione snapped. "I know that if you wanted a fight you would have started one by now; and arguments are the only thing we ever share."

"I need…" Draco paused, sensing a stutter, and quickly composed himself. "I need a favour."

Hermione's expression turned placid. A moment was required to process those words- out of his mouth- directed at her. Suddenly it seemed like a bad dream. So she did what came naturally. She laughed. Not in a jovial manner, though. Not the kind of laugh she shared with Harry and Ron. It was a somewhat spiteful gesture, entirely mirthless; intended not to convey amusement, but to belittle Malfoy.

To his credit, he didn't look as pissed off as the heat rising behind his ears suggested he was. Long since a master of his emotions, Draco managed to suppress his burgeoning fury and play the situation out as if it were all going according to plan.

When Draco didn't reply with a sarcastic remark, a sneer or a smirk- three things which she always expected of him- Hermione's jaw seemed to drop. Surely he wasn't serious?

"Malfoy, I haven't got time for your silly little games. Leave me alone."

"Don't tell me you need to return your attention to that book of yours…" at this Draco did smirk, though the expression stemmed no further than his lips, his glare still unnervingly cold and muted.

Hermione smiled condescendingly, nodded and then lifted the book she still clutched in her hands up before her face, desperate to sever eye-contact. He may have been more _smoke and mirrors _than anything else, but he was intimidating all the same. The way his shoulders were set in an even line, his stance a perfect illustration of etiquette, revealed a great deal more than she desired to witness.

"Actually, Malfoy, that's exactly what I need to do."

Hermione's smug grin lasted but a few seconds, and soon realization forced her eyes to shut tight, the fury of being bettered overshadowed only by the knowledge that her defeat came via Draco Malfoy's hand.

"Knowing your track record, a Potions textbook might be considered a good read. But an upside down Potions textbook? Well, that's stretching it a little."

Hermione slammed the book down so hard on the table top that the entire desk rattled, "Okay, you got me. I wasn't really reading. Big deal. Now bugger off."

Draco had to suppress his amusement, "Well then that forms the basis for my next question, Granger. Why is it that someone pretends to read? Furthermore, how is it that someone is so distracted that they fail to notice that what it is they are pretending to read is upside down? Myself, I have a keen eye for details."

Hermione wondered, given the company, why on earth she decided to pocket her wand.

"You're such a git, Malfoy."

"And you're an insufferable know-it-all, Granger. We all have our flaws."

Hermione frowned, "Yes, but most of us have qualities that compensate. Your flaws, on the other hand, are beyond compensation."

Draco conceded defeat with a slight smile, and took the seat across from Granger. She looked dumbfounded.

"About that favour…"

"There is nothing I would ever do to help you, Malfoy. _Nothing_."

"Ah, but you don't know what it is I'm going to ask you yet," said Draco assuredly.

Hermione scrutinized him from across the table, mulling over in her head all manner of insane propositions. Only one thing came readily to mind, and that didn't bear thinking about.

"I'm not going to have sex with you!" Hermione huffed indignantly. "Nor would I if you gave me all the galleons in the world."

Draco chuckled dryly, "That wasn't what I had in mind. I _assure_ you."

What started out as exasperation quickly turned into curiosity. It was now apparent that if Malfoy was playing a game then it was rather well thought out, and perhaps she could forgive herself for indulging his whim. When Malfoy hesitated, Hermione allowed her inquisitive nature to get the better of her, and she edged in closer.

"Okay then, Malfoy. I'll play a long. What _favour _did you have in mind?"

If Hermione didn't know better then she could have sworn that for a moment Malfoy's eyes lit up, alight with an emotion not befitting the cold, gray of his eyes. Upon second glance, it was gone, and the boy before her looked much like he always did; supercilious and indifferent. Still, he shifted, and sat a little straighter in his seat as he scanned the immediate area. When their privacy was assured, he turned to face her once more.

"I want you to hit me, Granger. I want you to hit me as hard as you can."


	2. Chapter I: The Life That We Lead

"Excuse me?!"

A proposition from Draco Malfoy was in itself absurd. What could she do for him that his prestigious name and untold wealth couldn't? Perhaps she should have expected something so ludicrous. Perhaps she should have expected a joke. Because that was surely what it was. A rather unfunny joke, but a joke nonetheless. Draco Malfoy could not possibly want her to do such a thing.

"You heard me, Granger," said Draco seriously. "I asked you to hit me."

"I'm not…" Hermione met his gaze, and found that rationality was momentarily beyond her. "That's insane. You can't possibly be serious."

"Oh, but I am. Deadly serious, in fact. All you have to do is close your fist, pull your arm back, and drive your knuckles as hard as you can into my face. You've hit me before, anyway, so it shouldn't be too difficult."

Draco was right, Hermione had hit him before. Back in third year, when he was being a royal prick. Not much had changed. And while she couldn't deny that at times she wanted to do so again, such was his agitating nature, she couldn't just strike someone for no specific reason. Before it had been in the heat of the moment; her anger, her disgust, getting the better of her. That act was justified.

But to do so again here and now, with her only provocation being his bizarre request, seemed so wrong. Uncharacteristic, even. Perhaps he did deserve a punch, but she didn't want to get her hands dirty at his expense. There must have been people cueing up around the castle, all ready, all willing, to make his _dream_ come true.

If he was indeed serious, and she was far from convinced that he was, why had he chosen her of all people?

"If this is some kind of sick joke, Malfoy…"

"Granger, I'm sure my word isn't worth much as far as you're concerned, but I assure you that this is not a joke."

Did it really matter if it was a joke? Even if he was serious, she wasn't just going to swing for him. Perhaps he needed a visit to the hospital wing, or, better yet, St. Mungo's. Something was clearly not right with the boy.

Hermione hesitated for a moment, trying to think of something to say other than the resounding _no_ that his request deserved. Ever the curious one, before she shot him down she had to know what it was that instigated such a perverse desire.

"Why?"

"Why do I want you to hit me?" asked Draco casually.

"Of course," Hermione replied, stopping short of a snide remark. What on earth else could the _why_ refer to?

"My reasons are my own, Granger. And I hope you'll respect that."

"Respect? Malfoy, how dare you preach respect? You don't even know the meaning of the word."

Draco sized her up, his own calm expression giving little away, "Yeah, well, I looked it up."

"I'm not even going to consider what you asked of me until you explain yourself. If you've lost your marbles then fair enough; but if that's the case you need help. Professional help. As much as you deserve it, you don't _need_ someone to hit you. That's not going to do anyone any good."

Logic once more guided her, and Hermione almost felt in control of the situation. That was until she saw Malfoy's scowl; his fists balled, barring his knuckles in an ugly white embrace; and the aloof quality in his eyes replaced by outright fury.

"I asked, quite nicely, if you would do me a favour," Draco began, a harsh quality to his voice. "I needed only a yes or no in return. What I didn't _need_ was substandard counsel from a self-righteous little _Mudblood_ bint. I understand you have this sickening yearning to help people, but I'm not a house elf. I'm not a charity case. I'm just someone with a very reasonable request, reaching out, graciously, to another human being."

"Fine," said Hermione, rising from her chair and packing her books back into her bag. "If you're not even going to be halfway decent then I'll leave you to it. I don't need to be verbally abused by someone who wants something from me."

Draco hesitated, staring at her books as they disappeared into her bag; any faint hope he might have had disappearing along with them. Why on earth was she being so difficult? He thought she would jump literally at the opportunity on offer, not run a mile.

"I was going to give you the benefit of the doubt, Malfoy," Hermione continued, slinging her book bag over one shoulder. "But you're such a vile _human being_ that I'm not sure I can bear being in your company a moment longer."

Hermione flashed a smug smile, and then turned to leave. The library door was just around the corner, all she needed was a few more steps and she was free. Freedom never happened though, as slender fingers were wrapped around her trailing wrist, and she was spun around into an uncomfortable near-embrace. Malfoy towered a good six or so inches over her, and in his gaze she saw more than she cared to witness.

"I hadn't finished," he breathed heavily. "And it's incredibly rude to just walk away when someone's speaking to you."

"Malfoy!" Hermione whimpered, feeling his grip tighten. "Malfoy, let me go."

"No. Not until you hit me. Please, Granger. _Please_."

The desperation veiled beneath the apparent spite in his tone almost allowed Hermione to feel a degree of pity for the boy. But his grip tightened further, and pity was replaced by a sudden desire to meet his request.

"Why do you want this so much?"

"I just do."

If she was anticipating a startling revelation she was left sorely disappointed. Malfoy didn't exactly seem the sort to pour his heart out to anyone, much less her, though surely even he couldn't expect something for nothing.

"Well I'm not going to do it with your hand around my wrist," Hermione reasoned. "Let me go first."

"Nope, can't talk your way out of this one," said Draco haughtily. "I let you go and you run a mile. You still have a free hand, so hit me."

"No."

"If you were seeking provocation, Granger, then surely I am now providing. Don't you hate the way I'm treating you? Like _filth_. Like common _filth_. Doesn't it make you want to hit me?"

"You're not half as smart as you think, Malfoy. You're not baiting me into this."

Malfoy's eyes seemed to flash momentarily, the fury of a confused teenager not used to being denied anything, ever. Unlike most teenagers though, he wasn't going to merely roll over and sulk when he didn't get his own way. Resolution was to be had, and the sooner, the better.

When Malfoy didn't immediately respond, Hermione took it as her cue, and tried to remove her aching wrist from his vice like grip. No luck though. Before she could say or do another thing, Malfoy moved in closer still. The proximity was suffocating.

"I think, by now, you're aware that patience isn't a virtue to which I aspire, so I'll say it just once more. Hit me!"

Hermione raised her chin defiantly, "No."

Previously it had occurred to Hermione that Malfoy relied solely on scare tactics, and her bold behaviour was justified because of that. But the harsh lines etched into his pale face, and the excruciating pressure being applied to her wrist, suggested that for once he may perhaps follow-through. And, for a fleeting moment, Hermione felt terrified.

"Listen to me carefully," Draco muttered. "I'm not going to take no for an answer, _Mudblood_. So why don't you take a deep breath and do what needs to be done. I'm not letting go until you hit me, and I can wait _all_ night."

Hermione braced herself, and before Malfoy had a chance to register the triumphant glint in her eye she managed to lift her knee, and drive it square into his groin. With just a few thin layers of fabric protecting his most sensitive area, he could do nothing but release his hold on her wrist and keel over backwards. Draco had wanted her to hit him, but not _there_.

"Stay away from me, Malfoy," Hermione warned, and when next Draco looked up she was gone.

While the proposition may not have gone according to plan, far from it in fact, Draco was always willing to improvise. He had planted the seeds of discontent, and even if it took him a month or two he was determined that eventually she would _want_ to hit him.

-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --

A few restless nights passed Hermione by, and despite her fervent attempts she was unable to focus on anything but Draco Malfoy and his newfound insanity. Surely something remarkable must have happened for such a curious request to even cross his mind. Far be it from her to claim to have ever understood the Slytherin boy, but now, more so than ever before, she found herself wondering what it was that drove him.

Ultimately though, that train of thought had led her nowhere. Malfoy wasn't like anyone else she knew. Which was fortunate, really, as one conceited, spiteful bigot was enough for anyone. Still, curiosity was getting the better of her, and as such she made it her business to avoid him at all costs. Were she to bump into him in the corridors it was entirely possible that she would be overcome by a sudden urge to interrogate him. And that could only end badly.

It occurred to her at the time, and at numerous instances since then, that perhaps she had inadvertently fulfilled his curious whim. Then she remembered how adamant he had been that she hit him in the face. Whatever it was that was wrong with Malfoy, not even he was screwed up enough to desire a knee to the groin. Ever the pacifist, Hermione had felt a brief bout of guilt about the incident, though she soon sobered up upon reminding herself that it was only Malfoy, after all.

Draco, on the other hand, seemed certain that his request would come to pass. Instead of sleepless nights, he enjoyed more hours rest than he had in a long, long time. Since before the War; before everything went oh so wrong. Quite simply, it came down to belief and the knowledge that in time, one way or another, he always managed to get his own way.

Perhaps that was a tad arrogant, but deservedly so. It wasn't as if by hitting him she was helping him. Of course Draco asked for it, _needed_ it, but as far as she was concerned it would do him little good. As sheltered as she was, she likely didn't understand the agonizing release he required to get from day to day. She merely thought him sick in the head, and while perhaps that was true it failed to encapsulate his motives in their entirety.

There was more to it, things beyond even his comprehension, but for the time being he was concerned only with resolution and not investigation. In a few years time he'd likely be overpaying an incompetent head doctor to answer questions for him, and as unappealing as that seemed, it was preferable to doing so himself. Especially at such a disconcerting moment in time.

-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --

"Harry," said Hermione hesitantly, turning to glance at her best friend.

"Yeah?" replied Harry lazily, already lulled into deep relaxation by the tranquil lakeside atmosphere.

Harry couldn't see it, for his eyes were closed, but an uneasy frown curled Hermione's lips. Her complexion was somewhat pale, and the faint bags under her eyes did her appearance no favours. She was appreciative that her friend paid more attention to the inside of his eyelids than he did to the way she looked, otherwise he would likely bombard her with a barrage of questions to which she did not yet know the answer.

"Have…" Hermione sighed, cautious of what might result from broaching such a subject. "Have you heard anything, I don't know, unusual, about Malfoy recently?"

"Malfoy?" Harry raised an eyebrow, though his lids stayed shut.

"Yeah, I know. It's a strange question."

Harry suppressed a smile, his unbridled glee getting the better of him. Conversation subject matter aside, it was a glorious day. Recently everything seemed to be going so right. Six years of turmoil and then suddenly nothing. He didn't quite know how to handle himself, but was determined to enjoy it nonetheless.

"You could say that," this time Harry flashed a goofy grin. "Recently though? Nope. I haven't spoken to him, nor heard anything about him from anyone else. Not since the War ended, anyway."

Hermione should have seen the proverbial road block coming. Despite the triumphant outcome, Harry would only ever refer to the War as if it were a distant memory; something that should be quickly forgotten. He had never been one to lap up the glory; that simply wasn't his style. But this was different. Any mention of the final battle, or even the War, would bring about an disquieting silence in the boy.

Harry wore his scars on the inside, he always had, although every now and again something would surface. It was his behaviour during these solemn moments in time that forced Hermione to accept his inexplicable vow of silence regarding the War. As his friend she owed him that much. Nevertheless, she was confident that one day, when the time was right, he would open up and share that which weighed heavy on his heart.

"Why do you ask?" Harry inquired, finally opening his eyes and facing his friend.

"No real reason," Hermione smiled sweetly. "Just curious."

The hypocrisy wasn't lost on Hermione. As strong as her desire was to find out from Harry the details of the War, she was unable to herself open up and share with him the reasoning behind her sudden interest in his erstwhile arch enemy. Karma, if there were such a thing, was telling her to be candid, and that perhaps in time he would return the favour.

"You can tell me anything, Hermione," Harry said pointedly.

"Likewise," Hermione countered, and fortunately the implication wasn't lost on Harry, who couldn't help but smirk.

Just as Hermione turned to look back in Harry's direction, she couldn't help but notice an orange blur dash across the expansive lawn in their direction. A thin layer of perspiration covered Ron Weasley's brow upon arrival, and he spoke as if he barely had a breath left in his lungs.

"You guys," he began urgently. "You've got to come. Fight!"

Hermione looked at him like he'd sprouted another head, and justifiably so as far as she was concerned. Harry on the other hand gave a playful nod and quickly got to his feet.

"Where are you going, Harry?" asked Hermione.

Harry hesitated, expecting a scalding, "To see the fight."

"You're not serious, are you? One minute you're relaxing out here, not a care in the world, and then all of a sudden you want to go and see two people kick the ever living snot out of each other. When will you two grow up?"

Neither Ron nor Harry seemed particularly affected by the lecture. Hermione had a habit of overreacting and assigning herself advocate over them; so much so that they were somewhat used to it by now. They loved her, but she really could do with loosening up a bit.

Harry offered an apologetic smile, while Ron wiggled his eyebrows suggestively.

"Perhaps I forgot to mention," Ron grinned. "That it's not just any old fight. I'm talking cat fight here. Now let's get going before a professor breaks it up."

"Oh, because that would be tragic," said Hermione sarcastically, as she watched her two best friends run off towards the castle. She knew she'd regret it later, given her outspoken aversion, but she couldn't help but call out to their retreating forms, "Who?"

Ron turned to look at her over his shoulder, still wearing a stupid grin, "Parkinson and some Slytherin sixth year. They're going at it!"

As Hermione watched them disappear out of sight she had to wonder, given Pansy Parkinson's _close_ relationship to Draco Malfoy, what exactly was going on. Circumstances had already passed far from her feeble grasp, and if she didn't soon get some answers she was in danger of falling victim to a severe phobia of hers; ignorance.

With any luck Harry and Ron would still be in something of a frenzy by the time she got back to the common room, and she could _inadvertently_ overhear any and all details regarding the fight. Strictly to put her wandering mind at rest, of course, and _not_ because she had a genuine interest in any aspect of Draco Malfoy's life. Such a notion was completely absurd.


	3. Chapter II: Human Affection

Before days had a chance to turn into weeks, Hermione realized that this _thing_ wasn't going away. Try as she might, she couldn't quite purge it from the forefront of her mind. And avoidance, which had been working like a charm, was no longer a viable option. Hermione and Malfoy may have had little in common, but every Wednesday afternoon- at one o'clock sharp- their paths would cross during Potions class. And anxiety, no matter how crippling, was not an adequate excuse for skipping class.

There was always the faint hope that the lesson might pass by without incident. Hermione liked being an optimist. Her buoyancy was soon quashed though, upon arrival in fact, and had she not been tardy the problem wouldn't have reared its ugly head. The only available seat was beside Theodore Nott, which in itself wasn't too big a disaster; the fact that behind him sat Draco Malfoy and Blaise Zabini, now _that_ was a disaster.

Slughorn seemed preoccupied with what was written on the chalk board, so Hermione slipped quietly into her seat and unpacked her things. A quick glance over at Harry and Ron earned her an apologetic smile, which was sweet, but little consolation. She stopped short of acknowledging Nott, who was likely only to either sneer or mutter something spiteful under his breath. He may have been somewhat reserved, compared to say Malfoy, or Zabini, but he was still a notorious bigot.

Class was dull, but for the incessant whispering behind her. Two distinct voices proved distracting, and resulted in rather lacklustre notation on her behalf. Of course, Hermione wasn't even remotely interested in what they were saying; why would she be? It was the distraction itself that was bothering her, and so she turned to turn to glare at the irksome duo. Zabini had his head down, his quill scratching furiously at his parchment. Malfoy, on the other hand, gave her a measured stare, which she found to be exceptionally unnerving, and when she turned back around she felt only relief, such was the underlying intensity in his cold grey eyes.

When it came time for Slughorn to dismiss them, Hermione quickly began cramming her books back into her bag. As she made to stand, however, a hand was placed on her shoulder, forcibly keeping her seated. The slender fingers she glanced out the corner of her eye were unmistakable, having been wrapped around her wrist mere days ago. She was just about to tell him to sod off when she noticed him flick a piece of crumpled up parchment into her lap, and suddenly the force on her shoulder was gone.

There was a pause within her before she managed to look up. Malfoy was nowhere to be seen, but Harry and Ron, on the other hand, were making their way towards her. She quickly snatched up the parchment and stuffed it into her skirt pocket before Harry and Ron's curiosity could be piqued.

"Hey, Hermione," Harry greeted, and Hermione smiled in response, grabbing her book bag and following them out of the classroom.

Before her contemplation diverted her attention elsewhere, Ron spoke up, "Sorry you had to sit next to that miserable git, Hermione. He didn't say anything to you, did he?"

It seemed a reasonable enough excuse for her daydreaming, and so Hermione played along, "No, Ron, he didn't. But it was my own fault, anyway. I should never have been so late."

Ron shrugged, "At least you didn't have to sit next to Malfoy."

Why was it that Ron _always_ had to say the wrong thing? Furthermore, why did he never _realise_ when he said the wrong thing? The fact that neither of his friends bothered to respond should have been a dead giveaway, but he just kept smirking like an idiot. Hermione, for obvious reasons, wasn't about to put aside her uncertainty and start slinging insults behind Malfoy's back; and Harry, well he seemed more interested in the corridor's décor than he did in anything Ron had to say.

Then something occurred to Hermione, "Ron, you never did tell me what that fight was about the other day."

Ron raised an eyebrow, "Since when did you care about something so _childish_?"

"You know what this castle's like," she reasoned. "Gossip country. And I just so happen to share a room with your girlfriend, the Queen of gossip country. So when she starts babbling I wouldn't might some prior knowledge regarding what it is she's babbling about."

Ron seemed convinced, "Well, apparently, Malfoy and Parkinson broke up…"

Hermione rolled her eyes, "And when you say apparently do you mean _according to Lavender_."

"Yeah, pretty much," said Ron. "Anyway, Parkinson was convinced, and she said so to the entire school, that Malfoy had been shagging this Slytherin sixth year, didn't quite catch her name…"

"Ah, Ron, ever the romantic," Hermione drawled sarcastically.

"Are you going to let me finish this story or what?"

"Sorry. Continue."

"Well, Parkinson confronted this girl in front of more or less the entire school, and started listing off the things she was supposed to have done wrong. The girl, for all her protesting, looked absolutely petrified. In the end Parkinson slapped her right across the face. I always thought that a _cat fight_ would be, I don't know, hot. But really, it wasn't. Anyway, in the end Filch reared his ugly head before things could get serious. And that was it."

Hermione sighed. That was completely useless.

"Thanks, Ron," Hermione smiled warmly at her friend.

-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --

It wasn't long before Harry and Ron disappeared to find their respective girlfriends, and despite protesting the fact that they spend such a beautiful day in the common room, that was exactly where she ended up. On her own. Although she thought it a slightly pathetic prospect, Hermione was about to go for a solitary lakeside walk. That was until she remembered the crumpled up parchment sitting in her pocket. The lake suddenly didn't seem so appealing.

_Perhaps you think I'm going to go away if you keep avoiding me. Sadly for you, I'm used to getting what I want. And what I want only you can give me._

Hermione realised resolution wasn't coming anytime soon. Malfoy's note only confounded her further, and she had to wonder to what lengths he would go to get his own way. She had always known he was a spoilt brat, but that didn't mean she was going to concede to his whim simply because he threatened to throw a tantrum.

That didn't stop her re-reading the note several times; call it her characteristic curiosity. On the fifteenth read through she noticed it somehow change. Not the words, but the meaning. It suddenly reeked of desperation, though it was veiled well beneath an assertive veneer. Why was it that she pitied someone who despised her so, and who she despised in return. Her sense of empathy, not her most prevalent of traits, seemed adamant that she do something other than ignore Malfoy's cry for help.

But what could she do? The barbaric nature of the act aside, she didn't _want_ to hit him. All she wanted was a solution; something to rid Malfoy from her life and from her thoughts. Did she dare approach him and broach the subject? Was there really much point? If his note was any indication, he would seek her out before she had the chance. She wanted resolution, but couldn't quite stomach the idea of Malfoy showing up announced at any given moment and impressing upon her his amoral desires.

Perhaps that walk would do her good.

-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --

The beautiful day, as it were, failed to last long. Scarcely had she reached the great lake when the sunshine retreated back behind the darkening clouds, which in no time at all burst, sending forth a torrential downpour. With no umbrella, and only her extra absorbent clothes to shade her from the elements, Hermione had no choice but to take cover beneath a nearby tree.

The journey back to the castle, even at a sprint, wasn't worth undertaking. Hermione was more likely to slip on the wet grass and break her neck than she was to get back in one-piece. And while the tree's shelter only did so much, it was welcome nonetheless. The leafy canopy absorbed the worst of it, letting only a light spray fall through to the ground below.

Due to her lack of reading material, Hermione soon pulled Malfoy's note from her pocket and read it once more. He really was a disturbed boy.

"I see you got my note," Malfoy's voice was unmistakable, even over the sound of heavy rain.

Hermione's head shot up, and she glared at Malfoy, who had not yet seen sense and joined beneath the tree. He looked like he was drowning out there amidst the downpour, though it seemed to have little effect on his placid disposition. He was staring at her intently, and all Hermione could focus on was his rain drenched hair, saturated to such a degree that the water seemed to pool on his forehead before dripping down and running off the end of his pointed nose.

"What, are you _stalking_ me now?" she cried indignantly.

"You could say that."

And still, Malfoy didn't budge. Perhaps instead of getting punched in the face he now wished to contract pneumonia.

"Malfoy, get under here," said Hermione, her empathy getting the better of her. "Are you trying to make yourself sick?"

"I didn't come here for healthcare advice, Granger."

"Then what did you come here for?"

"You know what it is I want. Give me that, and I'll go away. I'll leave you in peace."

Hermione got to her feet and slowly approached Malfoy, though she made sure to stay beneath the canopy. The rain was making it increasingly difficult to carry out a conversation at such a distance, and since he was acting like an absolute idiot she decided that she would have to be the one to facilitate communication.

"I've already answered you request, Malfoy. The answer was, and still is, no."

"Why is it that you can knee me in the groin without batting an eyelid? Or slap me across the face because of some stupid bird? But when I _want_ something, and I mean _really_ want something, along those very same lines, you flat out refuse. You don't even take it into consideration. Oh, it's okay to hit me. You have no problem whatsoever doing that. But the moment I ask it of you as a favour, a personal favour that I promise to repay, you suddenly turn into little miss pacifist."

It seemed a rather inane observation to make, but in the seven acrimonious years they had known one another, Malfoy had never in one stretch uttered more words to her, and her alone. Merlin knows why, but she felt validated by such a thing. Their loathing for one another had previously been somewhat hollow, at least in her mind, and his words reaffirmed everything. They gave a sense of clarity where before none existed.

"You like helping people so much, Granger," Draco continued. "Then do this one thing for me. It'll all be over in a heartbeat, and you can move on with your life."

"And you?"

"Pardon?"

"Once I hit you and move on with my life, what is it that you'll be doing? Wallowing in self-pity? Or perhaps self-loathing, having let a filthy _Mudblood_ hit you. Begged her to, in fact."

It was hard to see over the dense rainfall, but Malfoy's expression seemed to darken. He suddenly stood a little straighter than before, and regarded her in a manner to which she had grown accustomed. Outright disdain.

"You don't know me," he choked out bitterly.

"Which is why I _can't_ do this, Malfoy."

"No, Granger. It's exactly why you _can_ do this."

Malfoy was still getting battered by the elements, and what she knew to be a ridiculously expensive robe, for it sat on his shoulders, was getting ruined. Regardless, he seemed immune to the rising chill, which sent shivers down the length of her spine and caused both her arms to shake ever so slightly.

"Come out of the rain, Malfoy. We can talk."

"I don't want to talk. I want you to hit me."

Malfoy had always been aloof. Distant and unfeeling. Almost as if there was nothing more to him than the vindictive tormentor she encountered on a day to day basis, and that the coldness permeating his heart was vital, for it eased what he thought had to be done. Now though, there was something more; or perhaps less. Like he wasn't really there. So detached from humanity that he ceased to exist on the same level as the rest of them. It was frankly rather unsettling.

She owed it to herself to try and talk some sense into him.

"I heard you and Parkinson broke up…" Hermione tried to settle into an assured tone, but the look on his face told her she'd said the wrong thing.

"What?" asked Malfoy, though it was anything but a question. It was warning, and he was giving her leeway. Change the subject and he would quell his fury. But Hermione wasn't scared of anyone, least of all Malfoy. At least that's what she told herself.

"I said I heard that you and Parkinson broke up…"

"And since when is that any of your business, Granger," Malfoy measured his deep breath.

"Since the insane boy with whom she was fraternising decided that I was the perfect candidate to make his bizarre dreams come true."

"You don't _care_, so why are you asking?"

"If I didn't _care_ then I wouldn't be asking."

Malfoy groaned, "Because I wanted to, okay. Because I _fucking_ wanted to."

Hermione seemed unaffected, "So why is it that she's starting fights with other girls?"

"Oh, I'm sorry, Granger, I must have missed the announcement."

"Sorry?"

"I knew Hogwarts was all about alternative teaching methods, and that the faculty like to try new things, but hiring an eighteen year old Mudblood bint to be guidance counsellor is taking it a bit far, don't you think?"

Hermione couldn't pretend _that _didn't bother her, and they both knew it. No matter how many times she heard that world it always stung, even if only a little. It somehow was always worse coming from his lips.

Malfoy looked around the immediate area, and his trademark smirk crept into his expression, "Nowhere to run this time, _Mudblood_. Nowhere to hide."

"You're scum, Malfoy."

"And you're filth. So I guess that makes us the best of friends. Now hit me."

"No."

Malfoy's smirk diminished, and Hermione felt triumphant for all of two seconds, when suddenly he had her shoulders, and she was pulled out into the downpour.

"This isn't happy, lucky, fun time, Granger. And I'm not a nice person. My patience will only last so long."

Before her bearing had a chance to return to her, Hermione was thoroughly soaked. Effectively drowning in the elements, just like Malfoy. Only, Malfoy didn't have a mass of curls atop his head to contend with, nor was he quite so susceptible to cold weather. Not that it mattered, given the company, but thick clumps of her hair pinned themselves to her forehead in an entirely unattractive manner. And the shivering now extended beyond just her arms.

"M-M-Malfoy," Hermione shuddered. "I'm f-f-freezing."

"That's how I feel everyday, Granger. Every bloody day. I feel cold, for no apparent reason. It's not a physical ailment, though it does often make me feel ill. It's up here," he said, tapping the side of his head. "And the only way I can get it to disappear is by having you hit me. So please, Granger. Please, just hit me. And then in one glorious moment both our problems can disappear."

Hermione wasn't sure whether it was the extreme chill coursing through her, or the defeated look in his pleading eyes, but logic momentarily left her. She took a step back, and Malfoy piqued up, for he thought she was going to run for it. But a step was all she took. And as she met his gaze she saw in it the coldness constraining his very being. Compassion, quite unlike anything she had felt before, took hold and she swung her fist, with all her might, into the ethereally beautiful face of Draco Malfoy.

And then, as fast as her legs would take her, she ran.

* * *

AN: _Reviews are always appreciated._


	4. Chapter III: Haven

Euphoria; that was about the only word that did the feeling justice. Never before had he been able to reach out and touch a sensation so encompassing, and for a moment he thought his rapidly beating heart would explode beneath the harsh, uneven rise and fall of his chest. It didn't matter though. Not in the slightest. For in that one perfect instant everything washed away. Everything good, everything bad, and everything he long wished to forget. He was granted a clean slate, and for a moment, brief as it was, the powers that be overlooked his everlasting transgressions and allowed him into their wonderful realm.

At last he was aware of more than just what drove him; he was aware of the world and all its marvels. The still heavy rain that suddenly wasn't so easy to ignore; the chill sending a welcome shiver down his spine; and the fresh air as he took in a lungful and allowed it to further cleanse his shattered soul. Perfection, if that was indeed his greatest aspiration, was momentarily achieved.

But it was short-lived.

As the pain encircling the bridge of his nose numbed, so did the glorious earth-shattering sensations. Draco Malfoy was left only with what it was he had before, a frightful, excruciating void to which he only had one answer. And she would rather take her chances in the heavy downpour than she would spend a moment longer in his company.

Wherever she was, to whichever dark corner she retreated, Draco knew he had to find her, and soon. This newfound compulsion of his- which before existed only as a desperate theory- could not long go unfilled. He hadn't the strength of character to see through another day without what only she could give him.

Draco picked himself up off the rain soaked grass and carefully traced a finger along the length of his pointed nose. There was a slight bump at the bridge, and blood had dried on his upper lip, but there didn't seem to be any serious damage. A visit to the hospital wing wouldn't be required and for that Draco was eternally grateful.

It meant he could spend the rest of the day doing just as Granger had forewarned; wallowing in self-pity and perhaps self-loathing. Only, it wasn't all bad. He had the exhilarating remnants of that glorious punch to see him through the day.

-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --

Grazed knuckles and a tear-strewn face didn't make for the most welcoming disposition. So when Hermione finally reached the castle and got out from under the relentless downpour, she headed straight for Gryffindor tower and buried herself beneath the warmth and comfort of her bedding. With the curtains drawn around her four-poster bed, she felt unbelievably safe and secure.

Somehow Malfoy had managed to talk her into punching him. Whether through his powers of persuasion or otherwise, it was irrelevant, because in the end she caved in. What really concerned Hermione was the knowledge that she had punched him not out of spite, or anger, or even to pay him back for all the cruel things he'd said and done to her over the years. She punched him, quite simply, because he asked it of her.

How could something like that have even happened? She despised the boy, and the feeling was mutual. So why was it that she found herself doing favours for Draco Malfoy? Try as she might, she couldn't get her head around any of it. It was too bizarre to even bear thinking about.

"I still can't believe Ron asked you that!" exclaimed Parvati Patil as she bustled into the room. Lavender Brown was close behind.

"This is Ron we're talking about," Lavender replied as she collapsed onto her bed.

"True," Parvati giggled. "I wonder where he even got an idea like that. Look at the people he hangs around with; Harry, Hermione and I guess Neville. They're certainly not responsible."

Hermione hadn't a clue what they were talking about, but wished she was somewhere else nonetheless.

"I know exactly where he got an idea like that," Lavender sighed.

"You do?" Parvati seemed genuinely interested.

"Remember the other day when Pansy Parkinson got into a fight with that girl… whatever her name was."

"Yeah…"

"Well, you weren't there," Lavender began. "And my _vocabulary_ isn't quite up to Parkinson's standards, but basically she got very in-depth. Told everyone exactly what this girl and Malfoy had been getting up to. And she didn't hold back. It was like sex education, Slytherin style, only in the form of accusations."

That was _just_ what Hermione needed. Listening to these two nitwits talk about sex for the next half-hour.

"And so when Ron hears something he immediately has to do it himself?" Parvati again giggled.

"Not exactly," Lavender smirked. "He's only so eager because he heard that Malfoy did it, and he can't bear to let him get the upper hand. Though I think it's fair to say that Malfoy has the upper hand in _that_ department."

Now it was Lavender's turn to giggle. Honestly, how old were these two?

"So…" said Lavender suggestively.

"So what?"

"Well, do you think Malfoy really did those things?"

"Of course. I mean, I doubt he even knows the name of that girl Parkinson was shouting at. Or if they've even met. But those two, Malfoy and Parkinson, they've been at it like rabbits since before fourth year."

A mental picture Hermione could have done without.

"Really?"

"Why do you think he's so sure of himself? I mean there's the name, the wealth, the good looks. But he walks around like he owns the place. That's because he can get _it _whenever he pleases. And I don't need to tell you how much that means to a teenage boy."

There was a slight pause and Parvati lowered her voice, "Speaking of Malfoy; I don't suppose you happened to catch a glimpse of him earlier?"

"No?"

"I was just coming out of the Great Hall when I saw him. Soaking wet, from head to toe, and looking like he just had the crap beaten out of him. One of his eyes was bruised and he had blood running from his nose. Everyone was staring at him, but he just walked on by. Very odd."

"And you waited until now to mention this because…"

"Because you have your precious Won-Won, and there's no reason why you should care."

Lavender huffed, "If you say so."

Hermione wondered why it was that the moment Malfoy removed himself from the spotlight, her friends decided to compensate by making him the primary topic of their conversation. As if being stalked by the boy wasn't _enough_. As if being forced to punch the boy wasn't _enough_. As if having her every waking thought revolve around the boy wasn't _enough_.

She was desperate to rid him from her life, but that was proving increasingly difficult. Not only did his name always crop up, but those around her seemed adamant that they impart their opinion of Draco Malfoy. Whether it was Ron's outright disdain or Lavender and Parvati's shared obsession, nobody shied away. That was except Harry, who seemingly refused to acknowledge the existence of his erstwhile archenemy.

If only it were that easy.

-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --

Draco usually painted such a statuesque figure whilst roaming the corridors; but a sudden rush of blood to his head made it so he could barely stumble. Lingering still was a vague awareness, and he could just about sense the prying eyes surveying his every move. Taking in his bloody nose, the bruises under his eyes and the shambolic state of his attire. You couldn't wave your wand and repair such fine robes, but he didn't much care.

He would always be wealthy, no matter what. He could always buy new robes. The gift she had given him out on the lawn, however, was priceless. But if it _could_ be bought, borrowed or battered then he would have gladly given away his entire fortune just too once more feel the wondrous euphoria take him. Then, and only then, would Draco Malfoy die a happy man.

His hopes that the common room would be empty were soon dashed, because upon stepping inside he was bombarded with a barrage of questions from his _friends_. Each sycophant more concerned than the next. He could even hear Zabini chuckling from his usual seat beside the fireplace. Bastard.

His eyes never left the ground as he struggled to force through the crowd of people, towards his bedchambers. A hand grabbed his, but before he could muster a biting remark he turned and looked into the smiling eyes of Pansy Parkinson, who had apparently shooed away the horde of well-wishers.

"You okay, Draco?" said Pansy, stroking his still damp cheek.

"Oh, he's fine, Pansy," Blaise called out from across the room. "Probably just got into a scuffle with the Whomping Willow. Don't fuss over him; that's what he wants you to do."

"Shut up, Blaise!" Pansy warned, leading Draco onto the unoccupied settee and forcing him to take a seat. "I'm not in the mood."

Blaise had to suppress a smirk.

"Draco, what happened?" Pansy continued. "Tell me."

"Whomping Willow," Blaise coughed. "Oh, excuse me. I think I'm coming down with something."

Draco paid no mind to Pansy, despite her worried gaze. Instead he glared at his best friend, a nasty sneer curling his lip, "What's your fucking problem, Zabini?"

Blaise was understandably shocked by his friend's sudden outburst, and without missing a beat he leant forward in his chair and smiled apologetically, "Sorry, mate. I was only trying to cheer you up."

"Well leave it, okay," Draco sighed. "_Cheer_ isn't what I need right now."

Pansy, for whatever reason, took this as her cue. Her hand found Draco's thigh and she moved in for the kill, "What _do_ you need right now?"

Draco shook his head, a motion that whilst seemingly slight, was telling nonetheless. Pansy didn't need him to express verbally his rejection; she already knew that her _services_ would not be needed.

"Well at least let me take a look at your nose," Pansy persisted. "It looks like it might be broken."

"It's not broken, Pansy," said Draco condescendingly. "And I'll be fine. I don't need you fussing over me."

An awkward silence hovered over them, and Draco was about ready to storm off to his room when he felt a cold cloth pressed against his blood-stained upper lip. He turned towards Pansy, who for some odd reason wouldn't meet his gaze.

"When did you turn into little miss…" Draco began with a slight smirk, though Pansy was quick to cut him off.

"Shut up, Draco. Just let me do this."

Draco titled his head back, which was a sufficient response as far as they were both concerned. Pansy wasted no time and began dabbing the dried blood away. Draco tried to initiate eye-contact but Pansy didn't seem interested. When she finished she lifted herself from the settee and made to leave.

Draco grabbed her hand before she had a chance to escape, "What's wrong?"

"Nothing, Draco. I'm fine," Pansy smiled weakly. "In future, do try and keep that pretty face of yours out of harms way. Otherwise the girls of Hogwarts will have no one to fawn over."

Pansy snatched her hand from Draco's grasp and stormed off to her room; the exit might have been noteworthy had it not been for her bare feet, which lessened her intended effect. Still, there was enough evidence already to signify her foul mood. When Draco frowned, Blaise just had to chuckle.

"Don't start, Zabini."

"No, honestly, Draco," said Blaise defensively. "I was just thinking of a joke Nott told earlier. We all had a good laugh at that one."

"I've known the boy all my life, and never have I once heard him tell a joke."

Blaise smirked, "I guess you got me."

"Perhaps next time choose someone a little more jovial."

"Are you going to see what's bothering Pansy?" Blaise asked, mildly interested.

"No," said Draco simply. "I've got enough on my mind without having to coddle her."

"That's cold, Draco. Real cold."

Draco scoffed, "You're so concerned, Zabini, then why don't you run after her. I'm sure she'd happily open up her legs for such a gentleman."

"Now hang on a minute. That's not fair."

"Yeah, well, why don't you tell it to someone to gives a shit? Because I'm really not interested."

Draco threw one last disdainful glare in Blaise's general direction and took leave of the common room. Blaise was left wondering what it was he'd done to deserve such an earful.

A few moments later Crabbe and Goyle waddled into the room; shoulder to shoulder, as was their custom. They turned their beady little eyes on Blaise.

"Zabini," Crabbe began. He was undeniably the smarter of the two, but that wasn't saying much. "You seen Malfoy?"

Blaise sighed, "Not in a few days, Crabbe, no. Perhaps you should try the Great Hall."

Goyle gave a loud grunt. "You sat with him the other day. We saw you."

"You did?" Blaise shrugged. "Jolly good."

Blaise refused to give either of them the time of day, fearing that their stupidity might somehow rub off on him.

"Do have a good evening," Blaise said haughtily as he too took his leave.

-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --

It was funny the places your legs would lead you when you focused not on your destination but the journey itself. It would perhaps have been preferable to attribute it to chance, but Draco was above fooling himself. A certain Mudblood bookworm treated the library like a second home, and if he had to use that to his advantage then so be it.

He plucked a book from the 'recently returned' trolley and took a seat. He didn't even glance the title, instead opening it at the first page and skim-reading the contents. Not only was he indifferent to the dog-eared paperback, but he needed to divide his attention in case _she_ decided to show up.

Draco ended up devouring over one-hundred pages of mediocre literature before finally someone took the seat across from him. Only, it wasn't Granger staring back at him.

"What do you want, Sibyl?" Draco sighed.

"To talk, Draco. That's all."

Sibyl Gray was a Slytherin sixth year; as enamoured with herself as she was with Draco. Though she was a pretty enough girl- petite, fair-haired, and very well groomed- Draco couldn't quite stand her company. She had a habit of giggling at every little thing he said, as if her mirth might somehow seduce him. She also fancied herself a socialite, though that was difficult to maintain ever since Pansy made her enemy number one.

"Can't you see I'm busy reading?"

"But, Draco," Sibyl gave a sly smile. "Aren't I more interesting than some old book?"

Draco appeared to be thinking it over, looking first at the book, then at her, "No. Not really."

Sibyl huffed indignantly and began to pout, "Did you hear about what Pansy did to me the other day?"

Draco rolled his eyes, "Yes."

"Well I hope you told her off. What she did was out of order."

"If you say so," Draco shrugged

"Draco, we haven't even kissed yet!" Sibyl cried.

"And we never will, if I get my way."

"What's your problem?"

"Right now? You're my problem. If I told Pansy about how you're soliciting yourself to me at every opportunity then you'd get more than just a slap."

"Oh?" Sibyl grinned. "And why is it you haven't told her? Not developing feelings for me, perhaps?"

"Put your delusions aside for one moment, please," Draco shook his head in disbelief. "Realise that I feel nothing for you, and I never will. You're infatuated, that's all. You need to get over it and move on."

"But I'm in love with you!"

"No, you're not. You don't even know me."

Sibyl began to sulk, and Draco couldn't help but feel sorry for the girl. Her position was one with which he was very familiar, having been an only child growing up. Unfortunately for Sibyl, Draco didn't inherit Narcissa Malfoy's naivety, and as such saw right through her desperate façade.

"Look, you want some advice, Sybil?"

Sibyl refused to acknowledge his question.

"Stay away from me, for your own sake. I'm not going to tell Pansy, but she has ways of finding out."

Sibyl stayed silent and so Draco picked up his book once more and continued where he left off. The insipid narrative did just enough to divert his attention away from his puerile counterpart. Draco resigned himself to spending his afternoon with only a moody teenager and _The Ballad of Billy 'Bloody Bones' Doyle _to keep him company, since _she_ was obviously not planning on turning up.

A good twenty minutes passed and Draco assumed, or perhaps hoped, that Sibyl had made herself scarce. Her grating voice disproved that theory.

"What do you want, Mudblood?"

Draco looked up first at Sibyl, who was scowling, then turned to his side. Hermione Granger had decided to make an appearance, after all.

"Don't call her that," said Draco, rationalizing that Granger was his, and his alone, to torment.

"What?" Sibyl asked, genuinely shocked.

"I said don't call her that. Now fuck off."

Sibyl didn't need to be told twice, as she quickly jumped up out of her chair and bolted from the library. Draco didn't spare her retreating form a glance.

"Granger."

"Malfoy."

"Are you going to take a seat?" asked Draco.

"I don't know," Hermione hesitated. "I just came by to return some books."

"I'd really appreciate it if you did."

Hermione looked dumfounded, "Y-You would?"

"Yes," Draco nodded.

Hermione placed her stack of books atop the table and then slipped into Sibyl's recently vacated seat. She smiled a nervous sort of smile.

"About earlier, Malfoy…"

"It was wonderful; you were perfect. I can't thank you enough."

That was_ not_ what Hermione wanted to hear.

"Well, actually, I was left a little shaken."

"Is your hand okay?" Draco sat up in his chair to get a better look.

"Pardon? Hermione raised an eyebrow.

"Your hand," Draco continued, indicating with a nod her grazed knuckles. "Is it okay?"

Hermione did her best to contain her astonishment, "Oh, yes. It's fine. Just a little sore."

Then Hermione did something she was sure she would later blame on being shell-shocked. She reached out with her non-grazed hand and traced a finger over the bump on his nose. Malfoy didn't wince, but she could tell just by the size of the bump that it must have been hurting him.

"What are you doing, Granger?"

As if suddenly coming to her senses, Hermione quickly snatched her hand back and gave an apologetic smile, "Sorry. I just wanted to see the extent of the damage."

Draco measured his breathing, "You could have asked."

"Yes, I know," Hermione mumbled. "That's what I should have done. Again, sorry."

Granger seemed to recoil somewhat dramatically, and Draco wondered why. He was being civil; almost pleasant. He was well within his rights to question her touchy-feely behaviour. What was she thinking?

"It's quite alright, Granger. You needn't apologise."

"So… how _does_ your nose feel?"

"It's a little tender. You pack quite a punch."

Hermione smiled, "Do I? I never knew. And I doubt I'll get a chance to do that again anytime soon."

"What?!" Draco asked incredulously.

Hermione paused, needing a moment to understand what it what that caused his outburst. She soon frowned, "Malfoy, I'm not doing that again. It was bad enough the first time."

"God didn't give us food and water, and then snatch it back before we got a proper taste."

"And so you're comparing being punched in the face to two vital forms of sustenance. Are you out of your mind?"

Draco reached across the table, took her petite hand and held it in his, "Granger, look, I know I said it was a one time thing. And that afterwards I would never bother you again. But I _need _this. I _need _this more than you could ever know. Please."

"No! You can't ask me to do that. Not again."

"You think I like lowering myself? Begging you off all people to do my dirty work for me?"

At first Hermione didn't protest to him holding her hand, but his vile comment brought her back down to earth and she snatched it from his grasp, "You can't even beg without sounding like a supercilious arsehole."

Draco sneered, "Sorry, _Mudblood_. My parents didn't raise me with begging in mind. Maybe those filthy Muggles that raised you saw things differently; I wouldn't know."

"At least my parents loved me," Hermione spat, and immediately after she knew she'd crossed a line.

"What did you say?"

"Malfoy, I'm sorry," Hermione pleaded. "Really, I-I am. I didn't mean it."

"Repeat it," Draco breathed in.

"What?"

"Say it again," Draco breathed out.

"Malfoy, calm down," Hermione got up from her seat.

"Oh, I'm perfectly calm," Draco grinned. "Serenity surrounds me. Now, please, say it again."

"You're sick, Malfoy. I don't know what's wrong with you, but this isn't healthy."

Hermione didn't wait for a response; she turned on her heel and ran out of the library. Her breathing was soon ragged, as her short legs were not used to covering such long distances. She knew enough about Malfoy to know he was above hitting a girl, and yet still fright choked the life out of her. Breathless, Hermione had to stop.

Footsteps at her heel altered her to his presence, though she didn't respond until his fingers were around her elbow. His grasp more of a caress than anything else.

"You really know how to break a guy's heart, don't you, Granger?" Draco's laughter was bitter.

Hermione swallowed, and then turned to face Malfoy, "Look, I'm really sorry about what I said. I'm sure that despite their reputations your parents are lovely people. You're a credit to them."

Malfoy's expression never changed, though his eyes seemed to grow colder still, "That's funny, Granger."

Hermione regretted asking the question long before it left her lips, "W-Why?"

"Because my parents are dead."

* * *

AN: _Reviews are always appreciated._


	5. Chapter IV: Alone Together

For perhaps the first time in her life, Hermione Granger was speechless. It wasn't just that what came to mind didn't quite suffice; a situation to which she was no stranger. She genuinely had no idea how to respond. All she could think about was her spiteful remark, which now seemed significantly worse in retrospect. Telling a recently orphaned child that his parents never loved him; not even Malfoy deserved that.

When finally she got over the initial shock, she looked up into his eyes. They had such an impassive regard about them; unaffected by anything, even tragedy. For all she knew Malfoy could have wept when he first found out. Even so, she couldn't bring herself to see that in him. Hermione imagined a delegate, not much older than herself, approaching him and breaking the news. In response Malfoy could only nod, despite his strangled heart.

In his cold eyes no sadness lurked, and from them no tears would fall.

"That's heartbreaking, Malfoy," said Hermione, finally finding her voice. "I'm so sorry."

"No. You're not."

"W-What?" Hermione asked, stunned.

"I said you're not sorry," Malfoy deadpanned.

"Malfoy, I am…" Hermione began, but Malfoy cut her speech short.

"My father treated you and your friends like dirt," Malfoy breathed. "My mother looked at you much the same way. You're not sorry. And there's no reason why you should be."

Hermione hesitated, the degree of truth about his accusation mortifying her beyond belief. It seemed that whenever Malfoy reared his head, she was soon after bombarded by questions to which she could find no answer. It occurred to her that whatever it was he had in mind, she could at least be honest with herself.

"Okay," Hermione frowned. "You want the truth? I'm not sorry they're dead. Maybe I should be, but I'm not. I do, however, feel sorry for you."

Malfoy's angular jaw tensed, "I didn't ask for your pity."

"Then I don't know what it is you want from me."

"I want you to make me feel whole again. I want you to hit me."

Hermione sucked in a breath as realization dawned. Ever since their late night encounter in the library she wondered what drove him. What brought about his desire for self-destruction. At first she thought maybe he'd just lost his marbles; gone off the deep end, so to speak. It was unfathomable that something quite so profound might be the cause.

It seemed unlikely Lucius and Narcissa showered much love and affection on their only son. Yet still, losing one's parents was not an easy burden to bear; and to shoulder that alone, no less, was beyond even the most resilient of people. After all, who did he have to confide in? Pansy Parkinson? Crabbe and Goyle? Not exactly the most compassionate bunch.

And so, not for the first time, she decided she would try and help Malfoy. He needed someone. A proverbial shoulder to cry on. Even if he didn't want it to be her, she could surely find someone with whom he was comfortable.

"Malfoy, I know this is hard. I understand that. You need to talk about it though."

"I don't want to talk, you stupid Mudblood!" Malfoy cried, finally unleashing what had long been bottled up. He paused for a moment, and when he continued he did so in a sarcastic, singsong tone. "Oh look, here's Draco Malfoy; his parents just died, so the best thing we can do for him is sit him in a room with an overpaid, patronizing head doctor and allow ourselves to forget all about him. Why should anyone care what happens to him after that? We've done our job."

Hermione suppressed a whimper. She couldn't let Malfoy get to her; that's what he wanted. "That's not what I mean, and you know it!"

Draco closed the distance between them, leaning in and impressing upon her his authority, "Then what did you mean?"

Despite a trembling bottom lip, Hermione did her best to rein in her turbulent emotions, "I want to help you. That's what I want."

"I get it; you can't find anymore house elves that need saving so you thought you'd adopt me as your next charity case," Malfoy growled. "Not interested."

"What's your problem?" asked Hermione, a quiver in her throat. "Someone tries to help you, even though you don't deserve it, and you still treat them like dirt."

"Ever considered that someone might not want your help?" Draco sneered. "It must be hard for you to accept that, though. I know that ever since you obtained a shred of dignity you've made a habit of helping people, in some vain attempt to get over your oh so tragic past."

"What do you mean my tragic past?"

Draco smirked, "I imagine that in your Muggle School, the one your lot send you to before Hogwarts, you were extremely unpopular. To such a degree that no one, not even your own teachers, knew your name. Try as you might, they just wouldn't give you a break. You wanted to fit in so _desperately_- to be liked- but you were just different. You were a freak, and if there's one thing ordinary people can't stand, its freaks. And bushy-haired, buck-toothed little Hermione Granger may not have been considered a _Mudblood_ in that environment, but back then they were calling her by such vile names that _Mudblood_ would have been a godsend."

Apparently Draco's monologue hit close to home, as signs of Hermione's distress began to materialize. The tears she tried in vain to suppress threatened to spill forth and overwhelm her.

"Malfoy, please," Hermione begged. "Please stop."

"You were about to hit breaking point," Draco continued. "Your parents, noticing how abnormal you were, instilled in you a great deal of resilience. But resilience, no matter how strong, can only last so long. If older and not so naïve, you may have contemplated something drastic; running away from home, or perhaps even suicide. But you were ten, and had only your tears. Then, something glorious happened. You got a letter, and as implausible as it seemed, it not only gave you a way out but it somehow explained why you were such a freak. Why everyone hated you. Finally, you found your godsend."

"Malfoy," Hermione sobbed. "Just stop."

"So you plunged, headfirst, into this new opportunity. Studied every book, every spell, every famous being in the Wizarding World. I daresay you knew more than me. You arrived at King's Cross, hope lighting a fire in your soul, making promises, comforting you in your time of need. And you believed it. Poor little naïve Hermione Granger; you _actually_ believed it. Honestly though, what did you _really_ expect? You were still the same bushy-haired, buck-toothed little girl, as plain as the grass is green. Sure, you had a chance to put the past behind you, but you must have realised, from all those books you read, that even though you were a different kind of freak, you were still a freak. You didn't belong in our world, just as you didn't belong in theirs. To the Muggles you were abnormal, and to us you were just a filthy Mudblood. Perhaps, now that you were a year or so older, suicide didn't seem so drastic."

It had taken a long time. His diatribe seemed to last forever. Finally though, Hermione snapped. A sudden rush of blood to the head took hold, and thereafter she saw only crimson. The knowledge that he would likely appreciate the act seemed insignificant, for his euphoria would pale in comparison to hers. She knew this, and only this, as she pulled her arm back, swung forward, and drove her first hard into his pale face.

Malfoy hit the unforgiving stone floor with a dull thud, and seemed to convulse momentarily. Hermione made to run, fearing his response, but before her legs would lead her towards refuge she felt those slender fingers of his around her ankle. With just a pair of tights between her bare flesh and his vice like embrace, she got a sense of why the suffering relieved his woes. It was the only answer he had for sheer desperation.

Hermione looked back at him, noticing immediately the abrasion on his bottom lip, from which an extraordinary amount of blood was spouting forth. His chin was painted in the viscous liquid, though he made no effort to wipe it away.

"I wasn't finished, Mudblood," Malfoy lisped, such was the size of his bottom lip. "And you know by now how much I hate being interrupted."

"Malfoy, get off me."

Hermione attempted to free herself of Malfoy's grasp, but he was significantly stronger and she ended up losing her footing. Now beside Malfoy on the ground, and not in any position to escape, she thought he might release hold of her ankle. He didn't.

"Then, before these despairing thoughts could get the better of you," Malfoy continued his story, almost as if he hadn't just had his lip busted open. "You met two people. Harry Potter and Ron Weasley. Now, despite your freakish nature, you were smart. You saw in these two pathetic boys a shot at easy friendship. One was so famous people were afraid to befriend him, and the other so gormless that they avoided him like the plague. They weren't much, but they were the best you could hope for. Sadly, even they couldn't look past your faults and see… well, god only knows what anyone sees in you. But, whatever it is, they didn't see it. Now, I started to lose interest in your life story about now. You became just another Mudblood. But along the way, after some time had passed, I noticed they did eventually befriend you, and I soon realised why. It made so much sense. Harry Potter and Ron Weasley were not smart, but they did manage to formulate a genius plan. Make friends with the Mudblood, and they'd never have to worry about homework again. She's so desperate for friendship that she'll do anything to please her chums. Even whore her mind out to the highest bidder. Somewhere along the way their feelings for you may have grown beyond contempt, but at the end of day you and I both know why they befriended you in the first place. It was because of that realization that I had something of an epiphany. It isn't I in need of your pity; not at all. You're the pitiful one."

In the process of his continued monologue Malfoy had sprayed blood all over the hallway floor. He didn't seem concerned though as he watched Hermione for a reaction, trying to find in her expression something other than stunned disbelief.

"And that's what you think of me, is it?" Hermione finally found her voice, the bloodshed having curbed her tears.

"That isn't what I think. That's what I know. You're so simple that I figured you out straight away. That first day on the Hogwarts Express."

Hermione glowered at Malfoy, expressing wordlessly her disdain. His cold, grey eyes still hid from her secrets to which she wished herself privy; and she longed to see them unbridled and unaffected by Malfoy's tremendous restraint.

"Do you know what a half-life is, Granger?" Draco continued, surprisingly at ease.

Draco didn't want to express such a thing out loud, but his philosophy had failed him. Whereas before the punch brought about glorious euphoria, it now lacked any distinct sensation to distinguish it from the nothingness he felt before. There was a spark, a whisper in his ear, but not enough to propel him out despondency.

"Yes."

"So do I."

Draco slowly released his hold on Granger's ankle, feeling her concealed skin slip from beneath his desperate grasp. He didn't want to be alone, not right then. Not when all he had to alleviate his anguish had just failed him. And even though such failure made her unequivocally useless, he knew her life wasn't all sunshine and lollipops, either.

Hermione got to her feet, rubbing her ankle for emphasis. She couldn't help but catch sight of Malfoy out the corner of her eye, noticing immediately the unsightly abrasion that was accentuated more so because of his pale skin. He really was quite handsome. And while it may just have been a façade, hiding beneath it untold decadence, she admired his beauty nonetheless.

"You should get that looked at," Hermione frowned. "Your lip, I mean."

Hermione wished she'd just walked away.

"It didn't help, you know," Draco sighed.

"What didn't?"

"The punch," Draco got to his feet, brushing clean his expensive robes. "Before it felt… well, unlike anything else. This time… nothing."

"Oh. I'm sorry, I guess."

Hermione didn't know what else to say.

"I suppose I'll just have to concede defeat. My one and only hope at salvation just washed away. Tragic, huh?" Draco flashed a sardonic smile.

Hermione was keen to ignore her desire to comfort the poor boy. Any adversity to which he fell foul was surely just karma's way of establishing equilibrium. He was a cruel, spiteful little bully who for the last seven years had made her life a living hell. Not to mention the way he treated her friends. It can't have been his beauty that fuelled her empathy. She wasn't that vain.

Perhaps it was the desperation in his expression that caused her conflict. She associated Draco Malfoy with just about every negative emotion humankind was capable of; to see etched into his face something as pure as defeat was bound to affect her.

"Why did you punch me?" asked Draco.

Hermione thought about it, "I don't know."

"Because of my story."

"I don't know," she repeated irritably.

Draco took a step towards her, licking at his bloody lip. He'd always found that coppery taste to be somewhat nauseating, but he didn't let it show.

"You're not going to tell anyone… about my parents, I mean…" Draco took a deep-breath.

"No, Malfoy, of course not. I would never-"

Before she could finish her sentence she felt Malfoy's lips crash onto hers, and soon tasted his blood. The dizzying embrace brought about a myriad of emotions, the first of which caused her to hands to find his chest, forcing him away. He was persistent though, effortlessly shrugging the pressure off.

While she continued to struggle with her hands, her mouth wasn't quite so against the idea. It was only when she felt his tongue lick at her lips that she pushed with all her might, freeing herself from the hedonism that had momentarily taken hold.

"Malfoy, what the hell are you doing?"

Hermione could now taste his blood, the fluid staining her lips an ugly shade of crimson, and while it was utterly revolting it happened to be the lesser of two evils. She hadn't a clue what just occurred, and was sure that no amount of logic would suffice.

"S-Sorry," Malfoy looked like a scolded child, and sounded much the same. "I misread the situation."

Hermione released a shallow breath, "I can't handle being around you anymore. Seriously, Malfoy, stay away from me. Please."

Hermione was trying hard not tremble, but failing miserably in the process. She felt small under Malfoy's severe gaze, and did what she could to liberate herself of the situation. She ran.


	6. Chapter V: Primer

"Mister Malfoy, _please_ hold still," Madam Pomfrey urged as she tended to a rather sizeable abrasion on the boy's lower lip.

Draco sighed through his teeth. Apparently a healer who had a wand- and probably about fifty years in the healthcare service- needed first to dress a wound in antiseptic ointment before she could properly heal it. Something about avoiding infection; Draco didn't much care. He could have done without the stinging sensation though.

"Well be a little more careful then," said Pansy Parkinson disdainfully.

It was Pansy who dragged Draco up to the hospital wing, despite his fervent protests, and she had done nothing but make scornful remarks at Pomfrey's expense. To the healer's credit, she tried to ignore the young girl, but Draco knew from experience that was easier said than done.

A few more dabs at his tender lip and Pomfrey pulled out her wand, muttered a quick incantation, then flashed a homely smile. The pain gradually diminished until he was left only with a slight numbness where the wound once was. Draco nodded his thanks, then made to leave. Pansy was soon at his heel.

"Do try and be more careful in future, Mister Malfoy," Pomfrey called out after them.

When they first arrived, Pomfrey inquired as to the cause of the abrasion and Pansy quickly interjected, saving Draco the trouble of fumbling his way awkwardly towards some lame excuse. He couldn't remember Pansy's exact words, but she alluded to a fight with an anonymous Gryffindor, and made sure to remark that Pomfrey '…ought to see the other guy'. A disbelieving look followed soon after.

"Ugh, honestly," Pansy moaned. "That woman has the bedside manner of a troll."

"If I remember correctly," said Draco. "This excursion was your idea."

Pansy gave a pout, "Yes, Draco. But only because I had your wellbeing in mind."

"It was a split lip, Pansy. I'm sure I would have lived."

They continued in silence back towards the common room, stopping only so that Pansy could spy on an unsuspecting couple snogging in the bushes. Draco didn't exactly stop, either, meaning Pansy thereafter struggled to catch up with him.

"I think I might go to bed," Draco yawned, as they stepped inside the portrait hole.

"But Draco, it's only seven o'clock. You can't go to bed."

Draco raised an eyebrow, "I don't remember ever needing your permission _before_."

"Don't be a bore," Pansy frowned.

"Night, Pansy," said Draco, ignoring her. "Have a good evening, won't you."

-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --

The problem with an early night, Draco always found, was that it left one unable to sleep through until morning. Not due to a lack of fatigue, for that was always prevalent. It owed more to the fact that a person's biological clock regulated itself via routine. Draco was sure that was the reason for the interruption of his slumber, though indistinction was forefront in his mind and he could have been mistaken.

Draco rested his head in an attempt to sleep once more, but that lasted all of five seconds. The creak of a nearby floorboard was enough to rouse his senses. It wasn't fright that gripped him, yet still, he did feel rather vulnerable. He quelled his fears by reminding himself that it was likely just Crabbe or Goyle rolling over in their sleep; their great weight causing a shift in the flooring.

Nevertheless, he forced himself awake for a minute or so, just in case someone lurked beyond the comfort of his four-poster bed. Ceaseless silence was all the assurance he required, and as he felt his eyelids grow heavy he allowed sleep to take him.

When next consciousness reared its ugly head, a dream lingered still amidst his thoughts. All he could recall though, all that came to mind, was _her_ face. Her pretty little face. And the way she said his name. For some strange reason that brought about his arousal; he couldn't help himself.

"Oh, Granger!" he groaned into his shoulder.

It seemed so real. And the feeling escalated, forcing Draco to suck in a harsh, shallow breath. He was sweating now, quite profusely, and what little control he had over the situation was fast slipping away.

"Granger!" he again groaned, only this time much louder and soon after his arousal ceased.

Draco wasn't sure whether relief or frustration was more appropriate, such was the potency of the sudden sensation. He opened his eyes, slowly and with a drawn out deep breath. There before him, with just about the most pissed off look he'd ever seen on her face, was Pansy Parkinson. Perhaps it was a little naïve to think such a phenomenal feeling could stem from imagination alone.

"Granger?!" Pansy spat the name. "We were being intimate and you were thinking of Granger?"

Draco took a moment to compose himself, "Hold on a minute, Pansy. You were being intimate. I was asleep."

"I didn't hear you complaining."

"That's because I thought I was dreaming!"

Pansy's expression darkened, "About Granger?"

Draco sneered at his ex-girlfriend, "Get out of my bed. Go back to your room."

"Or what?" Pansy matched his sneer with one of her own. "You'll sic your filthy Mudblood girlfriend on me?"

Draco sighed irritably, but had enough presence of mind to tuck himself back into his boxer shorts. Pansy, who was still leaning over him, didn't seem particularly affected.

"Can we not do this now," Draco pleaded. "It'll only end badly."

"Actually, I think now's the perfect time. Tell me Draco, how long have you been shagging the Mudblood? Is that why you won't even look at me anymore?"

"You don't know what you're talking about."

"I know more than you think."

"You think more than you know."

Pansy's forehead creased in confusion, "Don't try that, Draco. I'm not Crabbe or Goyle."

Draco had nothing to lose. He began to snigger, "No, you're right there. I doubt Crabbe and Goyle give head quite like that."

Pansy looked outraged, apparently not seeing the funny side. She motioned herself backwards, trying to distance herself from Draco. Only then did he notice her attire; she had on an oversized tee-shirt, and, well, by the looks of it not much else.

Putting his arousal to one side, Draco looked up into her eyes. They were glazing over, and her bottom lip was noticeably trembling. She was on the verge of tears, and it didn't take long for them to materialize.

"I hate you Draco Malfoy," Pansy sobbed.

Draco reached out to embrace her, taking her tears as his cue, but she promptly slapped his outstretched hand away. She positioned herself in the corner furthest from him, and seemed to recoil at his very presence.

"Pans', come on. This is silly."

"I loved you so much. I devoted myself to you. I would have done anything for you. Anything. And yet I'm not good enough, am I? You want that Mudblood Granger. You've broken my heart, Draco."

Draco forced himself not to roll his eyes. Her melodrama wasn't helping his already foul mood, and his patience, even when it came to Pansy, could only wear so thin. If she was trying to bring about a sense of remorse in him, then she was going about it entirely the wrong way. He wasn't moved by her blubbering; he just wished she would shut her up.

Despite that, he did care a great deal for the girl. She had always been there for him when he needed her most. She was his shoulder to cry on; his pillar to lean on. The time they shared reinforced their relationship, but things hadn't been_ perfect _in a while. Draco started to grow evermore distant, and Pansy was so used to affection that she found it impossible to endure his indifferent attitude.

Overnight she went from beloved best friend to abject stranger. As silly as it sounded, she always imagined they would one day get married. There was the church, the magnificent white dress, the adorable little vicar; the whole package, all still alive and well in her conscious mind. What broke her heart was that every time he shrugged her off, that vision of perfection diminished. And right before her very eyes the things she once held dear lost all meaning. Without Draco, life seemed so dull. Almost not worth living.

"What does she have that I don't?" Pansy snapped, her lips drawn into a thin line. Despite the valiant effort, her resolution waivered almost immediately, and the tears threatened to return. "You once told me I was beautiful, Draco. Did you mean it?"

Draco pulled himself from out beneath his bed covers, and got onto his knees. He shuffled slowly towards Pansy, and sat himself beside her. When he wrapped an arm around her she didn't protest. She sunk into his reassuring embrace and held onto him for dear life.

"Of course I did, Pans'," Draco whispered into her ear. "You are beautiful. And I love you…"

Pansy pulled herself free of Draco's embrace, expectancy alight in her smiling eyes. Draco could only frown.

"…just not like that," he continued, sombre. "I'm sorry."

Pansy once again seemed to recoil at his touch, and this time scampered back towards the other end of the spacious bed. Draco had to rein in what little patience he had, lest he do or say something he might later regret.

"Pansy, look, why don't you sleep on it," said Draco, pinching the bridge of his nose in a vain attempt to rouse himself. "We can talk in the morning."

Pansy's eyes widened, "So, you break my heart and now don't even have the decency to let me vent? Just throw me away like an old robe. An old robe not quite as pretty, or intelligent, or funny as your new one. But you've got good use out of it, so it's okay."

"Pansy, you're being unreasonable. Please just-"

Draco hadn't yet noticed, but Pansy stopped crying. There was a furious calm about her as she mellowed in the proverbial eye of the storm. When she interrupted Draco she sounded odd. The hurt was palpable, underlying every syllable, but there was more. A malice marring her usually melodious intone.

"Reasonable? You want to talk about reason, Draco?" Pansy was trembling slightly, belying her austere gaze. "Put this into reasonable terms for me… what would Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy think of their only son screwing a filthy _Mudblood_? The heir to the great Malfoy name degrading a thousand generation's worth of upstanding Wizarding folk. If they were alive today they would disown you. You're a disgrace."

Draco swallowed a lump in his throat. Then did so again, just for good measure. Pansy was staring back at him, still trembling, still trying to maintain an indifferent façade. Draco ignored the urge to pull out his wand and kill the girl, but he was blinking so rapidly that she surely knew something was wrong. When he finally shattered the suffocating stillness in the air, his voice wasn't his own. It was a harsh, discordant whisper being forced out over a disapproving tongue.

"Get out. Now."

The weight of the words washed over Pansy and what little courage she mustered was instantly crushed. She followed the advice of her rapidly beating heart and made herself scarce.

Draco, now alone, kept a certain calm about him. He reached beneath his pillow, pulled out his wand, and cast a silencing charm on the immediate area. Only with his privacy assured did he allow a guttural, almost primal roar to burn its way through his throat and past his lips, where it quickly dissipated into oblivion. The proverbial damn soon after burst, releasing a lifetime's worth of pain and anguish.

At long last Draco Malfoy wept on behalf of those dearly departed.

-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --

Hermione pressed her still trembling fingers to her lips for the fifth time in as many minutes.

She was totally ignorant to Crookshanks, who was curled up in her lap, purring his little heart out, practically pleading to be stroked. Sadly for him, she could focus only on the strange tingling sensation taking hold; a sensation not unlike pins and needles.

In many ways she was thankful. The sensation itself allowed her to momentarily forget, or at least block out, the person responsible. And that was what she had to do. Thinking about it would only drive her crazy.

"You okay, Hermione?" asked Lavender Brown from her position atop Ron's lap. "You keep touching your lips…"

"Fine, Lavender," Hermione replied curtly, forcing a smile. "My porridge this morning left a funny taste in my mouth, and I haven't been able to get rid of it all day."

Lavender grinned like an idiot, and then rested her against Ron's shoulder. Ron failed to notice, his concentration drawn towards a rather close game of Wizard chess between Harry and Seamus Finnegan.

"Finnegan, will you never learn," said Ron disbelievingly. "Harry just gave you a huge opening and you turned the other cheek."

"Shut up, Ron," whispered Harry, his foot colliding with Ron's shin beneath the table. "Let him play his own game."

Seamus groaned, "Will both of you shut up!"

Hermione licked her lips, striving to nullify the sensation. Instead it only made things worse, rousing once more the tang of Malfoy's blood. No matter how many times she rinsed out her mouth, or brushed her teeth, the shiver-inducing taste lingered still. It wasn't quite nauseating, and that's what worried her.

"Check. I got you, at last," said Seamus in his thick Irish drawl. "Take that, Weasley. That's why I'll never listen to you."

Ron rolled his eyes and let out a dramatic sigh, "That's not a check, Finnegan. Not even close."

Seamus' triumphant look faltered as his eyes scanned the board. Ron was right.

"Oh, forget this," Seamus whined. "How can anyone be expected to beat you, Potter; you have your mascot leaning over your shoulder, whispering sweet nothings into your ear. It's not fair."

"Don't be a sore loser, Finnegan," Ron smirked. "Man up and shake Harry's hand."

"I'll shake my fist into your face in a minute, Weasley," Seamus snarled. "You're a pair of cheats, that's what you are. Go hustle someone else."

Seamus stormed out of the room, huffing and puffing all the way to the portrait hole.

"Oi, there's a box of Bertie Bott's riding on this game," Ron cried incredulously.

"You can have the damned beans, Weasley. They're in my sock draw."

Ron's face turned bright red, and he looked around at his friends for moral support. Sadly for him Harry couldn't stop laughing, and Hermione was busy staring off into space.

"It's not about the beans, Finnegan," said Ron, picking himself up off the chair and taking Lavender by the hand. "It's the principal."

Ron hurried after Seamus, and Lavender had little choice but to follow.

"When will Ron learn," said Harry, his laughter having died down. "Never to trust an Irishman."

Hermione smiled weakly at him, her attention still drawn elsewhere. Harry, looking worried, climbed into the recently vacated seat beside her and gave her shoulder a slight tug.

"You alright, Hermione?"

"Yes, Harry, I'm fine," Hermione nodded. "Just a little distracted."

"Distracted by what?"

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

Harry raised an eyebrow, "Try me."

Hermione couldn't help but laugh, "Honestly, Harry. It's too absurd to even bear thinking about."

Waiving her hand dismissively, Hermione went back to starting into space; the darkening sky outside the common room window proving more interesting than current conversation. Harry was far from satisfied, though.

"This is about Malfoy, isn't it?" he asked quietly.

Hermione sucked a deep breath into her lungs, but it did little to alleviate her sudden distress, "Harry…"

"Please, Hermione. Just be honest with me. That's all I ask."

Hermione turned towards her best friend, a crooked smile playing on her lips. It was a forced gesture, but Harry knew that.

"He kissed me."

Hermione was expecting disaster. The specifics eluded her, but fury, indignation, disgust all came readily to mind. If Harry got up, looked at her like she was filth and then left the room, she probably wouldn't have blamed him, or been particularly surprised. That wasn't a poor reflection upon Harry's character; not at all. Because this was Draco Malfoy they were talking about.

"Did you kiss him back?"

When that was all he uttered, Hermione had to turn her wide eyed gaze towards him. She just divulged something rather horrific, and all Harry was concerned with was whether or not they had a good snogging session.

"No, Harry; of course not. Why on earth would I do that?"

Harry stayed silent, and Hermione followed suit. They weren't aware how much time passed, and they didn't care to look one another in the eye. When finally Harry turned back towards her, he was looking grave. He waited until she stopped daydreaming before he spoke.

"He's a good man, Hermione."

"Malfoy?!" Hermione asked, aghast.

"Yeah."

"Sorry, Harry, but did you meet another Malfoy? One who isn't a supercilious, conceited prick?"

Harry's voice dropped to such a low whisper that Hermione strained to make it out, "He was there, Hermione. On the day the world changed forever. He was there."

"Malfoy?!" she repeated, as if an incredulous exclamation of his name was enough to prove her point.

"I'm a man of my word; or at least, I try to be," Harry frowned. "I promised to keep this between me and him, but something tells me he'll forgive this."

"Forgive what, Harry? You're not making any sense."

"I think it's time you knew the truth about Draco Malfoy," Harry released a heavy sigh, one he'd held in far too long. "Are you ready?"


	7. Chapter VI: Through the Looking Glass

_Cassandra,_

_I write you this letter because it's all I have left to give. Though you are far away, isolated from those you love, I know that someway, somehow, this, my last testament to the world, will reach you._

_I travel with a young boy, and he finds himself in my debt. This letter will come to you by his hand, for soon, I fear, I will be dead. I ask only that you do not mourn me, for in your sorrow awaits only damnation. Instead, cling to your memories; in this world we live they are the only thing on which we can rely._

_I will not be there to see the world end; the fact you will makes my heart ache. Cassandra I love you, and I needed to tell you so one last time._

_Eternally yours,_

_Edward_

Edward Frost sighed through his teeth. Somehow words never managed to paint the required picture, and he knew, through experience, that perseverance wasn't the answer. Even as he folded the note into itself and slipped it inside his trouser pocket, he realised that he was no poet, and therefore his heartfelt message would seem more sentimental than evocative.

He glanced over at his companion, with whom he'd spent the last thirty-six hours. That amount of time in a horse-drawn carriage with any human being was somewhat detrimental to a person's state of mind, but Draco Malfoy managed to make it seem as if damnation was already upon him. He was always willing to give people, even Malfoy's, the benefit of the doubt; but when they lived up to their horrendous reputation, and then some, resentment usually followed.

Draco Malfoy wasn't strictly a bad person. Sure, he was stuck up little brat who also happened to be an unapologetic bigot, but that wasn't what really bothered Edward; he saw far too much of the Father in the Son to really, truly buy the redemption card he was so keen to play. Yet he had his orders, and he vowed to follow.

"You ever felt like you're destined to die, Malfoy?" asked Edward pensively. "As if no matter what you do to prevent it, it will happen. And it will happen soon."

Malfoy turned to him and frowned, "Every single day."

"So is that what this is about? Is that the reason for your deflection?"

"I thought you were done interrogating me," said Malfoy irritably.

"I am," Edward nodded. "Think of this as a personal question."

"I didn't realise we had grown so close, and I must confess, in any case, that the prospect doesn't exactly enthuse me."

Edward turned away and found himself staring at the curtain blanketing the outside view; another bothersome reminder as to where he was. Malfoy, as was his custom, gazed at the ceiling.

Edward ran his fingers through his hair, receded to somewhere about the middle of his head, and greying so rapidly that it aided his adaptation to the pitfalls of old age. His countenance served another reminder; crow's feet flanking tired eyes, palpable but for the crooked, beaten nose resting inches beneath. His robes were likewise aged, though there was enough about them to suggest that once upon a time they fetched a handsome sum.

"You have a girlfriend, Malfoy?" Edward smiled sadly. "Anyone you're seeing?"

This time Malfoy didn't bother looking at him, "There you go again with the personal questions. I'm starting to pity your desperate loneliness. And pity isn't something to which I've grown accustomed."

Edward grinned inwardly, knowing that Malfoy would love nothing more than to get a rise out of him. The boy may have been stuck up, but he had enough insight into the world around him to ensure that he was rarely bettered. And it wasn't merely verbal prowess, for Edward had seen Malfoy in his darkest moment; wand in hand, curses spluttering forth from his lips like they meant nothing, and an incredible energy about every movement he made. Malfoy was power, and in the heat of the moment, looking at him was like looking into the heart of a vast, expanding star on the verge of a supernova.

But that was a seldom seen side of Malfoy, a deliberate smoke screen on his behalf. He wanted people to underestimate him. He wanted them to see his cowardice. And for all its many drawbacks, he seemed to want the life he'd been cursed with. Right up until very recently, at least.

"I'm going to take a nap," Draco drawled lazily. "If any more delightful questions spring to mind, do write them down. I'd hate to miss out on the precious moments we share."

Edward brought his hand up to his chin, rested his elbow down on his knee and lent forward. He remembered it well. It had been a routine mission; reconnaissance. He and Draco were merely the scouting party, instructed to report to the search and destroy team upon their findings. The hideout, located just north of Manchester, was _supposed_ to be abandoned; even their superiors acknowledged the futility behind such an endeavour. But they had their orders.

Cloaked in stealth, Edward and Malfoy traversed the abandoned warehouse, absorbing their surroundings and leaving no trace behind. When they heard footsteps, routine went out of the window. Abandoned warehouses didn't house footsteps; theirs was silence, and silence alone.

When Remus Lupin reared his head, Edward realised the gig was up. Something had to give. The life of a double-agent was rarely an easy one, but having a Death Eater and an Order member to your left and to your right put your tenuous allegiance under the spotlight.

Malfoy raised his wand. Lupin followed suit. Edward was caught in the looming crossfire, and had no choice but to turn his own wand on Malfoy, thereby letting him in on the truth. Malfoy could have fought; as powerful as he was, he still likely would have lost, but a true Death Eater wouldn't just lower his wand.

Malfoy did more than lower his wand; he pocketed it, and his sneer turned solemn. And just like that, he was one of them.

Today was the day that his redemption came full circle. The War's end was just over the horizon and the time for stealth and secrecy had long since passed. True allegiances came to light, and every capable, able bodied Wizard gathered together with their kin.

They were on the verge of revolution.

Edward knew that he and Malfoy were, in the grand scheme of things, expendable; mere pawns amongst it all. But Harry Potter made him promise to deliver Draco Malfoy to him in one-piece, and that was exactly what he intended to do. He was a man of his word.

Overcome by fatigue, Edward determined that a nap would do him good. And so he settled into the coarse, padded fabric of the carriage recliner, but not before covertly slipping his note into the folds of Malfoy's robes. The boy was smart enough to figure it out without an explanation, and he truly was in his debt.

-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --

Hours later, at journey's end, they stepped out into the twilight chill and watched as their carriage departed back towards civilization. They stood before a cave formation, parts of which glinted under the ethereal moonlight glow, and looked at one another in earnest. It was the first day of the rest of their lives.

"So this is it?" Draco wondered aloud. "It's inconspicuous, I'll give you that."

They stepped into the shadow, carefully measuring their own footsteps so as not to disturb their surroundings. A voice echoed through the darkness, and by the time it reached their ears it dissipated into a low, haunting hiss.

"You're late."

Draco bit his tongue. Potter was doing him a favour; so as much as he desired to remind his erstwhile enemy of the pitfalls tied into the inauspicious mode of transportation they had been burdened with, he was instilled with enough restraint to resist. He wished this _meeting of minds _over already.

"Sorry, Harry," said Edward, probing blindly through the darkness. "We couldn't get away any sooner."

"Well, you're here now. Lumos," and as Harry's voice faded the immediate area lit up. He turned his guarded stare towards Malfoy.

"Potter," Draco acknowledged.

Harry held his breath, then exhaled tiredly. "You know, when Remus told me what happened, I couldn't quite bring myself to believe him. He's perhaps the most honest man I know, and yet, still, the truth can sometimes prove difficult to swallow."

"I suppose you're going to want to interrogate me too, are you?" Draco heaved a sigh.

"No," Harry nodded shortly. "Edward administered the veritaserum and was sufficiently content. I trust his judgement."

"So what now?" asked Draco.

"If you had come to me a few months, or even weeks, earlier, I might have asked to see your Dark Mark. You would have proved a valuable set of eyes and ears in their camp. But the end draws near, and it's far too dangerous for either of you to be amongst their number. You will return with me to London. Edward, a room has been prepared for you at Grimmauld Place."

It hardly required superlative powers of deduction to realise the answer, and yet Draco asked the question anyway, "What about me?"

"Malfoy," Harry frowned his disillusion. "You will need to go into hiding."

Draco could feel the blood rushing to his head, filling his eyes and obscuring his senses, "Potter, I can fight. I can help you. I don't need to be sheltered from the War like I'm some sort of invalid."

"It's too dangerous, Malfoy," said Harry sternly. "When word breaks, you'll have people from both sides demanding your head. I'm protecting you from my people, as much I am from _his_."

There was a long silence; a gap of thirty seconds or so. They seemed momentarily to be sizing one another up, and not for the first time. Draco was first to brave the silence, but he did so in a raspy, tentative intone that belied the poise he endeavoured to display.

"He killed my parents, Potter, just like he did yours. I've come to understand what it is you go through on a daily basis; please, try and do the same for me. Afford me my right's, that's all I ask. I _need_ revenge, to a degree which only you and I can truly comprehend."

Harry stepped towards him, Malfoy's words prompting an unruly glut of unsolicited sentiment that harked back to a young boy he long wished to disregard, "I know what you're going through, Malfoy, but vengeance isn't the answer. It won't rid you of the pain, or bring them back. "

"Don't you think I know that?!" Malfoy's voice rose, dangerously so, and his tone was but a few decibels from the roar of which he wished himself presently capable.

"Then what do you possibly hope to achieve?"

"I made a promise, Potter. To the only two people who ever loved me. That promise is all I have left. If I can't live up to that then I truly have nothing."

Harry chewed his lip, caught up in an astonishing moment in time that tried and tested the very precepts by which he lived his life, "Edward?"

"I-I don't know what to say, Harry," Edward bowed his head low, powerless to look Malfoy in the eye, lest the smouldering sensation in the pit of his stomach rise up and consume him. "I wasn't yet aware the Malfoy's had- had passed on."

"You weren't?" Harry raised a brow, an ever-present curious dismay that reared whenever he forced himself to regard the inner workings of the Death Eaters.

"No. The Dark Lord has been especially secretive of late. But if you want to know whether Malfoy can handle himself, then I assure you he can. He'll be an asset."

Harry took another step towards Malfoy, this time holding out his hand, his calloused palm facing upwards, into the light, "I've hated you for six years now. You've made my life, and the lives of my best friends, an ever-living misery. But I can think of only one person unworthy of redemption, and in a matter of days he will be dead. I'm willing to put the past behind us, and let you fight by my side, because I think I've finally figured out who you are. So all you have to do is shake my hand, Malfoy, I ask for nothing more."

And Malfoy gave him only what he asked for; nothing more.

-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --

Even though Potter gave his word that when the time came he would call for him, the fact remained that Draco Malfoy was something of a burden. Secrecy was required, even Draco knew that, for even the most open minded of people wouldn't readily accept his _redemption_. That it had been acknowledged at all helped quell his desperation, and the realisation that dawned hand in hand with hope was all the encouragement needed to endure the horrendous, one-bedroom flat he was hauled up in.

It wasn't just the confined spaces, or the arid atmosphere, that got to him. The few books and ornaments scattered around the place strongly suggested that the previous occupants of his very humble abode had been Muggles. It was a disquieting reality, one he wished to ignore, for it was a relentless reminder as to his diminished status in society, and perhaps even an implication that the momentous decision he only recently made was anything but wise.

Fortunately, the literature itself was somewhat inspiring, to an extent he thought impossible, and it allowed him to ignore not only the traces the Muggles left behind, but also the unwarranted regrets that plagued his tortured mind in moments of quiet reflection. The glaring irony occurred to Draco on several occasions, but it was overlooked for sanity's sake.

While the Wizarding world and the Muggle world existed on two entirely different planes, certain aspects overlapped the boundaries that, in the opinion of many, ought not to be crossed. That was to say that Draco had_ heard_ of William Shakespeare, and of Oscar Wilde, but their names meant very little to an individual unfamiliar with the fruits of their labour. If nothing else, the week spent in his _charming_ fortress of solitude allowed him to acquaint himself with what were, quite frankly, works of art.

It was only the vast discrepancies between Muggle literature and Wizard literature that prevented him from believing in the vague possibility, and yet distinct desire, that these writers he admired so dearly were in fact Wizards masquerading as Muggles. Since magic was evidently such a vital part of their existence, Wizard literature was concerned more with the foundation and application of spells and enchantments than it was with the art of storytelling. Their world was such that they lived the stories the Muggles yearned to tell.

That wasn't to say that stories in the Wizarding world went untold, but due to their deficient capacity for any sort of narrative on a grand, epic scale, the quality could be seen as sketchy at best. It was Draco's understanding, or perhaps reasoning, behind his newfound love for Muggle literature.

He saw in himself the many cursed flaws inherent in their tragic heroes, and unlike with the foolish and sentimental protagonists in Wizard literature, he could finally relate. Life wasn't perfect at any point in time, be it beginning, middle or end. Shakespeare realised such a truth and endorsed it for the entire world to see. Instead of trumping in with idealistic _white knights_ in shining armour, so brave and valiant that they somehow lacked distinctive character flaws so prevailing in all of mankind, he painted pictures of hope overcome by despair, pictures that echoed existence to such a poignant degree that Draco found himself literally moved to tears on multiple occasions.

The literary conflict was poetic, and hauntingly so; it held within an elegance, something unequivocally absent from legitimate strife. Heroism was an all-together different thing, for the greatness of men relied not on righteous deeds, but on the will and knowhow needed to realize ones most prominent desires. It was only really the last few pages that dampened Draco's spirits; ultimately these _heroes_, like those they vanquished, would become undone by way of their fatal flaw.

It occurred to him that everyone, living and dead, past and present, was subject to at least one fatal flaw. After a week of reflection it became obvious that his was a pervasive preservation instinct, which others often confused with cowardice.

A sudden knock at the door stirred his senses, and he placed his worn copy of _Macbeth _downon the floor beside a half-empty glass of water. He straightened his robes with the palm of his hand, ridding the fine material of several unsightly creases, before stepping into the modest foyer and pulling open the door.

"Potter," Draco gave a slight nod as way of greeting, still entirely bewildered by the prospect of greeting Harry Potter in anything but a hostile manner.

"Can I come in, Malfoy?"

"You say that like this is my house."

Harry shrugged his response and followed Malfoy into the living area, staring blankly first at the smoke stained curtains and then at the recently vacated, dilapidated armchair. There wasn't much else in the manner of furniture, for if anything he was trying to humble Malfoy, not lessen his plight, and to his credit he refrained from bemoaning his predicament. Harry was certain that, given recent events, Malfoy had more pressing matters to ponder, and trusted that the surroundings imposed upon him would facilitate such a thing more so than the refined elegance to which he was accustomed.

"So, Potter," said Draco, leaning his shoulder into the door frame, watching as Harry scrutinized the room. "To what do I owe this pleasure?"

Harry's wandering gaze stopped at the foot of the armchair, and he bent down low to pick up _Macbeth_, whilst making sure not to knock over the half-full glass of water it rested beside. His eyes flashed over the cover, then again in a rather incredulous manner, before he turned back to Malfoy, his lips turned upwards into a wry smile.

"Didn't think you'd touch the Muggle literature, Malfoy, let alone read it."

"What would you have me do instead? Stare all day at the curtains?" Draco sighed. "Or perhaps draw them apart and admire the alleyway below."

Harry grinned, "You have a point."

"Something tells me you put them there just to see if I'd read them."

"I have no idea what you're talking about," said Harry, whilst inconspicuously scratching the back of his head.

"Whatever you say, Potter," Draco shrugged, mildly amused and yet all the same uninterested in establishing a _personal joke_ with Harry Potter. "So- why are you really here?"

"With the information provided by you, Frost and several others, we've managed to come up with a plan. A means to end this War once and for all. I know you said you wanted to be there, and I respect that, but still, I advise against it. This battle is far too personal for you. So I'll give you one last chance; if you want to back out, back out now."

Draco ignored the chance for a reprieve, instead giving Harry a measured stare, "When?"

"Tomorrow," Harry conceded. As much as he didn't want Malfoy by his side when judgement rained down on them all, he was a man of his word. "I'll come for you in the morning."

Harry looked down at the book still in his hand, and frowned. Everything was about to change. And while surely change was a godsend, it was very possible that without strife of some sort he might fall apart. Ever since he came into the Wizarding World there had been some obstacle to overcome; some enemy to vanquish. The world needed the war to end, desperately so, in fact, but Harry knew that life without conflict would take some getting used to.

"Here's your book back, Malfoy," said Harry, passing _Macbeth_ over to him. "Make sure you get a good nights rest."

Harry turned to leave, counting his steps towards the doorway. Just before he reached the foyer, Malfoy's voice called out to him, "I dare do all that may become a man; who dares do more is none."

"Pardon?" Harry spun on his heel, his face alight with curiosity.

"It's a quote," Draco began. "From _Macbeth_. Potter, I've come to realise that you and I- we're not as different as you might think. What diversifies us is the fact that you embody all the traits I've long since suppressed, and vice versa. Those traits are still within us, somewhere, though we've long since learned to ignore their very existence. You see, we've travelled our own distinctive paths, but we started at the same point in time. We were both blank slates once, but whereas your metamorphosis is complete, mine hasn't yet begun. For some strange reason, despite all that, a quote exists that manages to exemplify us both."

Harry hesitated, halfway between Malfoy and sanctuary. It unnerved him to no end to realise that he was right, and that somehow the quote did epitomize them both. His musings had, as of late, been rather more straight and narrow. His mind clouded not by deliberation but decision. Thrust into a position of power, as he was, at such a tender age, left one with a distinct lack of personal time and space.

Far too chaotic was the state of his mind's eye for him to even consider a reasonable response. So he smiled weakly, and nodded, "Goodnight, Malfoy. Get some rest."

-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --

The stormy sky overhead was a somewhat fitting allusion for what would soon come. A battle would rage beyond those Castle doors up ahead, but it paled in comparison to the one already raging in each of their hearts. As slow as the lapse of time assuredly was, they knew it would be mere hours before the world around them changed, and not a man or woman alive could avoid what was to come.

Draco checked his wand for the fifth time in as many minutes, overcome by irrepressible anxiety. He looked to those around him; ashen, distrusting faces, scrutinizing him through sullen eyes. He got the distinct impression that they wanted to kill him as much as they did the Dark Lord and his infamous disciples. Harry assured him several times that such a thing simply wasn't true. But Draco knew better.

A company of forty, perhaps fifty, Witches and Wizards gathered at the foot of the castle, its colossal oak draw-bridge looming ominously above their heads. It had been long, perilous journey, and Potter was putting the finishing touches on his coup d'état, organizing those gathered into four diverse groups. Naturally, Draco found himself under Potter's order.

He acknowledged this fact with a slight nod, before once more surrendering his mind to the growing turmoil. Only when the familiar clunk of the draw-bridge's descent sounded did Draco re-focus his attention on the present. Quite suddenly, something occurred to his conscious mind. Those around him got to their feet and made their way into the castle; Potter remained behind until everyone was inside. Draco flanked him.

"I need to ask one last favour, Potter."

"Can't it wait, Malfoy," Potter seemed flustered, and understandably so. Destiny beckoned.

"If you or anyone else sees Blaise Zabini, then please, let him be. I vouch on his behalf."

Harry hesitated, before giving a solemn nod, "I'll tell my men."

"Thank you," Malfoy breathed. "I'm forever in your debt."

"No, Malfoy. You're not," Harry turned to him and smiled sadly, momentarily forgetting the daunting moment in time so that he might make an imperative observation. "Tomorrow you're a free man. And you have the rest of your life ahead of you. Take care inside, and don't let yourself get isolated."

With that Harry ushered him in, and immediately they were drawn into the righteous struggle between good and evil that would, once and for all, end the Second Great Wizarding War.

Only then did the floodgates burst the dormant contents of his sorrowful soul, and the grief fuelled him. He was like a living, breathing maelstrom of pure energy, enacting revenge upon faces he'd long since looked into and held only good will. Their surprise washed over him, energized him, cleansed him.

Though a horde flanked his very shoulders, so closely they brushed him on several occasions, he was but a man, on an island, lost amongst euphoria in a crystal-clear paradise, spurred by choked sobs and screams that dissipated into the midnight air before they could even truly subsist. For what would be the last time- and, coincidentally, the first time- in a matter of months, Draco felt truly alive, albeit amidst the rare merit of mortality.

The thin splint of wood clutched forcefully between the elongated fingers of his left hand was but an instrument of his malice, vengeance and unjustifiable righteousness. Evident as it was, attention to his erstwhile place amongst these wicked people failed him. His cold grey eyes were alight, and in them he fancied himself a hero.

Even as comrades and adversaries alike fell by his side- for the already indistinct line differentiating them had ceased to truly matter- his passage through was perpetual, unbroken by the haunting testimony marring the diminishing, but all the more overshadowing, vapor clouding his mind's eye.

He was retribution. He was reprisal. He was vengeance.

Eye's lit up in the faces of those that fell, be they already bright and full of unattainable aspiration, or dark, dismal, hidden by shards of flesh and bone sculptured into a stony façade. In those eyes he saw what he longed to see; Lord Lucius, Lady Narcissa and justification, warranting persecution upon those worthy of nothing else.

And then, all too soon, it was over. They conveniently disregarded the sea of bodies at their heel, for the few that remained were burdened not by bereavement, but a pissed off and reproachful conscious, the vigorous surplus therein freely dispersing manifest condemnation. Only two sets of shoulders held off the slump; Draco Malfoy and Harry Potter stood side by side, blithe, blasé, for aesthetics sake, but comprehending unfathomable fear beneath it all.

A hand on Draco's shoulder, firm, appreciative; an unspoken forewarning, "Malfoy, I have to do this alone."

Malfoy's teeth collided, top with bottom in a repulsive, grinding embrace, whilst his tongue pressed the roof of his mouth as he sought desperately to rein in his tumultuous psyche. After a moment, their wide-eyes met across the distance, and respect itself acquiesced to his request.

"Get those that are left back to the a_pparition_ point, and find refuge. Even if I defeat Voldemort, many of his followers will remain loyal to their end," Harry took the deepest of breaths, and when he exhaled his eyes shone a little brighter. "Do that and I'll find myself in _your_ debt."

That was the last thing said before the world around them changed forever.

* * *


	8. Chapter VII: Perfectly Wonderful

Harry's concluding silence was much like the culmination of a rather harrowing nightmare, and in it Hermione found not relief- for her desire to have never heard the tale at all overwhelmed her intrinsic rationality - but instead trepidation. The extent of information was far too great to comprehend in such a relatively short space of time, and though she prided herself on finding answers where others would often fail, the nature of the problem left her feeling somewhat adrift.

To Harry's credit, he didn't look to her for a response. His fierce gaze held enough sympathy to mitigate her woes, and indulged the helplessness to which he was no stranger. They shared with one another more in those brief moments than they had since the War's end, and managed to communicate wordlessly what was unable to roll off the tips of their tongues.

Though Hermione was somewhat frustrated at the lack of actual answers she'd received, not to mention the plethora of questions that his story encouraged, she was at least grateful that he'd _tried_ to help. Perhaps the answers to some questions remained hidden no matter a person's vigorous endeavour; for only through time could some truths come to light.

"Well, thank you, Harry," Hermione began tentatively, finding the encircling silence rather unnerving. "That was… enlightening."

Harry frowned. "I don't know what you're thinking, Hermione. I haven't the faintest clue. But something tells me you wish I'd kept my mouth shut."

"No, not at all-"

"Look," Harry interrupted. "I'm not asking you to trust Malfoy. In fact, I think you should be wary of him."

"Do _you_ trust him?" asked Hermione.

"When I told Lupin what Malfoy had said, and described his behaviour, he responded with a quote; 'a person isn't who they are during the last conversation you had with them - they're who they've been throughout your whole relationship'. Draco Malfoy hasn't changed. He will never change. I know that. The only difference between now and a year ago is that the sliver of decency he _must_ have in his soul has come to light."

"Sliver?" Hermione snorted derisively. "You're too generous, Harry."

"Regardless, whatever Malfoy's up to, you need to be careful. Perhaps beneath that mask he wears there exists an honourable man, but keep your distance whilst that mask remains intact."

"Don't worry. I wasn't exactly planning on cozying up to him."

"But you did kiss him…" said Harry, and he tried in vain to hide his disgust.

A brief silence fell, one that pained them both. It wasn't like Harry to make such a snide remark, especially at the expense of his best friend, but the very idea of the two of them sharing such intimacy infuriated him. And the only way he could disguise his fury was with contempt.

"No, Harry, I didn't." Hermione raised her chin defiantly, looking him straight in the eye. "He kissed me."

Just when they thought the situation couldn't possibly become anymore uncomfortable, Ron bundled into the common room, sat himself between them on the sofa and wrapped them both into an overly affectionate embrace. He didn't release his vice like grip either, and so it was only when Hermione wriggled free of his grasp that he realised something was amiss. He rose from the sofa and looked each of them in the eye.

"What's going on?" Ron groaned his frustration. "I leave the common room for twenty minutes, not even that, and when I come back you're both looking at me like the world's about to end."

-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --

October eventually passed into November, and the long days left naught but a dull imprint upon Draco's absent mind. He was consumed only by the recurring hollow in his heart; the same numbness he had already attempted to alleviate. It had taken a day or two, by which point his physical wounds had healed, before he came to the realisation that the euphoric release Granger gave him was merely temporary. And that was something he would have to live with.

But that wasn't the worst of it. The longing was now more so consuming, for the sudden sensation brought him to a time and place in which he couldn't linger. Withdrawing back into awaiting oblivion was far worse than remaining there eternally. Through his overwhelming desire to feel again, he had neglected to consider the dire consequences. It hurt now more than ever.

The change in him was not going unnoticed by others, either. His pale complexion turned sallow and his greasy white-blonde hair hung lank over his bloodshot eyes. He looked repulsive, but pride through vanity was no longer his concern. What good was superficial splendour when inside your soul was slowly rotting away? Pansy noticed, but it was a long time before she gathered the courage to say something.

"Draco," she began tentatively, after weeks of watching him deteriorate. "Are you alright?"

Draco, who had been reading, placed his book beside him on the settee. A slight sneer curled his chapped lips. "_Perfectly wonderful_. Why do you ask?"

Pansy knew almost straight away the mood Draco was in. Belligerent, sarcastic, and insulting, even to his closest friends. Conversing with Draco had always been something of a challenge; living up to his lofty expectations was important to her. But sometimes he made it impossible.

"You don't look so well."

"Oh, really?" Draco replied. His sympathetic tone, intended to mock Pansy, was betrayed by his cold, unfeeling stare. "It must be ever so difficult for you, Pansy. _Ever so difficult_. I mean, I'm your one claim to fame, aren't I? The reason behind your _popularity_. Does my appearance perhaps negate that? Is it no longer fashionable to be a notch on my bedpost?"

"Draco, please…"

"Please what?" Draco spat. "Please clean yourself up so I can go back to being Queen of this castle?"

"I don't care about that," Pansy urged. "Not right now. I'm worried about you. I really am."

"Concern noted and disregarded. Leave me alone, Pansy."

Pansy briefly wrestled with the idea of following his advice. It would have been so much easier. It was difficult, though, watching a dear friend fall from such great heights into the very depths of despondency. It forced her to rethink her own disposition.

"I remember when you used to tell me everything," Pansy murmured, and after a deep breath she moved to sit beside him on the settee. "_Everything_. About the Dark Lord. About your Father. About how you felt. It made me so happy."

"Did it ever occur to you," Draco turned to her midsentence and licked at his chapped lips. "That perhaps I had an ulterior motive?"

"No. I didn't care. I couldn't let the truth destroy me."

"Ignorance is bliss," Draco shrugged.

"I know you don't think very much of me, Draco. I have always known that. But I honestly love you, and I don't think I can ever feel for anyone else the way I feel for you. You may have deliberately broken my heart, but I forgive you, because it was yours to break."

Pansy waited, and when she didn't get a response she reached over and tugged at sleeve of Draco's shirt, her perfectly manicured fingers brushing the underside of his wrist. In an instant, Draco grabbed hold of her by the shoulders and pushed her away, clutching at his trembling wrist as he stood to leave.

"Don't," Draco warned. "Just don't."

Before he could get away, Pansy hopped up from the settee and blocked his path out of the common room. "Please, Draco. I can't bear to lose you. Let me help."

"Help?" asked Draco, though the area in which she placed her hand gave him his answer.

"Yes, Draco. Help."

Draco sighed and removed her hand. "Actually, there is something you can help me with."

-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --

When considering how one was perceived by others, it was important to remember that it wasn't appearance that mattered; not entirely, anyway. It was projection. Draco firmly believed that if he projected the same confident demeanour he had since his first day at Hogwarts, then people would look at him no differently.

He had spent twenty-five minutes in the shower, scrubbing and scraping, for his own sake. He had asked Pansy to cut his hair as a favour to himself. Whether people perceived him as handsome or otherwise was irrelevant, because he was so _certain_ of their respect. Thousands of witches and wizards didn't follow the Dark Lord to their deaths because of the way he looked; they did it because he owned their very souls. Draco didn't know so for sure, but he believed that said ownership owed to initial respect.

Draco didn't mean to compare himself to Voldemort. For all his beliefs and prejudices, he still considered himself somewhat balanced. He craved power, and control, but he wasn't a megalomaniac bent on world domination. He was merely his Father's son, and any desires he had came with the territory.

Perhaps such musings were just a means towards distraction. There was a great deal he would unconsciously do so as to keep Hermione Granger away from his conscious mind. Berating Pansy Parkinson, reading terrible literature, even indulging insufferable girls who happened to be infatuated with him; all things served their purpose, and this Draco did acknowledge. It was just that he chose to let the purpose itself elude him.

It was terrible literature that he had in mind as swung the door to the library open and stepped inside. The fact was, if his mind allowed him to recognize that which he was trying to ignore, he wouldn't have made it to the library. _Her_ fondness for the place meant it was far too risky a location for even idle loitering. He scanned the room- not for her; _never_ for her- and saw Blaise Zabini staring vacantly at a foot and a half of blank parchment. Wonders never ceased.

"Are my eyes deceiving me? The genius that is Blaise Zabini, and he can't even muster the properties of Boomslang skin."

Blaise scoffed but didn't look up. "That was first year stuff, Draco."

"And, if I remember correctly, back in first year Snape scolded you for not knowing the answer to that very question."

Blaise met his gaze and frowned. "How on earth do you still remember that?"

"I have an eidetic memory," Draco said with a shrug, and he took the seat across from Blaise. "No big deal."

"You do _not_ have an eidetic memory. That's such crap."

"See, a simpleton like you could never understand the complexity that is my mind."

Though Draco smirked, and looked much like he was the champion of all men, Blaise didn't seem fazed. He folded his hands before him on the table and leaned forward.

"You know, you may have a point there. Your mind is certainly _complex_. I mean, just imagine being raised pretty much from birth to hate anything impure. Muggles, Mudbloods, even Half-Bloods. Imagine hating them to such a degree that you can't co-inhabit the same room without voicing your disdain. Then imagine having your repulsive fixation with one of them- a Mudblood, no less- turn into, well, for lack of a better word, _love_."

Draco remained calm. "Have you been smoking that rubbish Nott grows out by the Astronomy Tower? Are you having another hallucination?"

Blaise's muted laughter was poisonous to Draco. "Ah, Draco, my good friend; your façade is slipping. You're losing your touch."

Draco turned away, indifferent. "I haven't a clue what you're talking about."

Blaise grinned, anticipating a long awaited victory over his friend. "Oh no, of course not. If I were in your position, I too would deny it. But the fact remains, you're in love with that Mudblood Granger."

Draco swallowed and blinked far too many times for his dissent to come off convincing. "Seriously, tell Nott to stop lacing that shit with slug repellent. It's obviously had an adverse affect on your psyche."

Blaise sighed. "I wish that what I was saying was just a side-effect of a drug fuelled bender. The truth is far worse, though. You actually _feel_ for her, don't you?"

"No."

"What happened to you, Draco?"

Draco finally turned back towards Blaise, his trembling lip curled into a sneer. "I'm not fucking in love with her. I don't even like the bitch."

"I can't blame you for protesting the fact, but it _is_ a fact."

"Look, you idiot," cried Draco, and he slammed his fist down on the table top in an uncharacteristic display of emotion. "Someone's obviously fooled you into believing this rubbish-"

"It was Pansy, actually," Blaise interrupted.

"Whatever. I don't _care_ who it was, I just need you to know that it isn't true. I'll prove it to you."

"And how on earth are you going to do that?" asked Blaise. "I've already been convinced."

"If I was in love with _Granger_," Draco spat her name with such genuine disdain that he even he was starting to believe. "Then my desire would be for her and her alone. She would consume my every waking thought. The idea of fornicating with anyone else would surely repulse me, wouldn't it?"

"Hmm, perhaps," Blaise mused. "If you were a _normal_ person. But being a Malfoy, you don't do things like the rest of us."

"Love is such a sickening concept that I don't even wish to comprehend it. As far as I'm concerned, it doesn't exist. But, since you seem adamant that it does, I feel it necessary to disprove you insane theory. _If_ I loved someone, I wouldn't fool around with other girls. So, how about this: I will bed the next girl who enters the library. And I will do so today."

Blaise grinned. "And here I was thinking you'd gone queer on me. When was the last time you had sex? Must be well over six months now."

"Regardless of how long it has been, it's not down to love, I can assure you."

Blaise pondered the proposition for a moment, and glanced towards the doorway. "The first person?"

"As long as they're half-way attractive and don't weigh as much the Giant Squid."

Blaise nodded. "Deal."

They both turned their attention towards the library entrance and Blaise leaned forward in his chair, an eager smirk curling his lip. Draco, on the other hand, regarded his fate with guarded curiosity; perhaps an evening spent in the company of a beautiful lady would forever clear Hermione Granger from his mind. Perhaps not. Either way, it would help get both Blaise and Pansy off his back.

"You know what would be funny?" asked Blaise.

Draco ignored him and narrowed his eyes. He had a very good idea of what Blaise thought might be funny, but he didn't want to consider it. It would make a dreadful situation that much worse. And after everything he'd gone through, he thought he deserved a break. Man could only endure so much despair.

"If Granger walked through those doors," Blaise answered his own question, and apparently found it so _funny_ that he couldn't suppress a hearty chuckle. "Irony at it's best."

Draco sighed, but immediately perked back up as the doors swung open. In stepped an absolute godsend and Draco thanked whoever was responsible for giving him his sought after break. The outlook wasn't so bleak, after all.

"Well, well," said Blaise, again grinning. "Hard luck, old chum."

Draco flashed his trademark smirk. "Maybe if _you_ were in my shoes this would a dead-end, but I think you underestimate my charm."

"This one is beyond even you, Draco. She has a boyfriend. She likely hates your guts. And, well, she has a boyfriend."

"You said that already." Draco got to his feet and stretched his arms out over his head.

"True, but I thought it was worth saying twice."

"Well there's your problem, Blaise. You think too much."

"And the opposite can be said of you if you're actually foolish enough to go through with this."

"Watch and learn, Blaise," Draco murmured as he followed the girl to the backend of library, into a quiet, deserted aisle of shelves. "Watch and learn."

Draco carefully measured his footsteps in pursuit, so as not to alarm her or alert her to his presence in a manner that would belie his true intent. She stopped, after a moment, to peruse a section of Transfiguration textbooks, and Draco stepped up behind her. The height difference was quite significant, and so he had to lean in to whisper in her ear.

"Lavender Brown, isn't it?"

Lavender froze, and even though she was essentially immobile it was clear her body tensed. Draco Malfoy was stood behind her, that much was obvious from his characteristically lazy drawl, and she didn't know whether to feel frightened or perhaps thrilled. Either way, she was hesitant to turn and face him.

"Transfiguration?" Draco breathed, and he reached out to finger the very book she had been searching for. "Not the greatest way to spend one's evening."

Lavender could feel his warm breath on the nape of her neck. She tried desperately to think of Ron and Ron alone, but couldn't deny her desire to have Draco Malfoy's breath flush across her face. In her dreams, her wonderful dreams, his breath had smelt of peppermint and Butterbeer; during her slumberous state the blending of the two fragrances had been impossible to resist.

Just as she felt her restraint return, and acknowledged in her mind's eye the goofy smile of Ronald Weasley, Draco placed his hand at her elbow, and the calloused tips of his slender fingers caused goose pimples to rise over every inch of her. How could he do so much with so gentle a touch? It wasn't fair.

"You know what I do instead of Transfiguration?" Draco moaned softly into her ear. "Hmm? I bet you don't. I find McGonagall's voice so boring, so painfully dull, that I'm forced always to focus in on the beautiful girl sitting second row, third from centre."

Lavender was already trembling, her arousal overwhelming, but when she felt his tongue slide over the shell of her ear she had to suppress a whimper. So what if the most alluring man she'd ever laid eyes upon was aggressively coming on to her? She was strong enough to resist his charms.

"That's where _you_ sit, isn't it?"

Draco was prepared to continue, barely halfway through the speech he'd prepared, when he felt her turn towards him and press her lips against his in a desperate, heady embrace. And if he squinted his eyes just enough, he could pretend that her hair was brown, not blond. And that the eyes he was looking into held familiar disdain, not unbridled passion and desire. He was a mess, and what was more, he knew it.

For all the endeavour in the world, he couldn't cleanse from his mind the most deplorable piece of filth he'd ever had the misfortune of being infatuated with. Even as his tongue slid into Lavender Brown's mouth and wrestled with her own, he was imagining _her_. Everywhere but in reality it was Hermione Granger's body melting into his. Everywhere but in reality it was Hermione Granger's firm backside he was grasping. Everywhere but in reality he was entirely content.

Draco didn't feel even a shred of guilt for using Lavender, be it as a means to prove a point to Blaise or so that he could refocus his wandering mind. He _did_, on the other hand, feel pity, but only for his own sake. He could have almost anything he desired, and yet she would _always_ elude him. It was beneficial, in a way; never would he have to lower himself to that Mudblood bint. Never would he have to taint the Malfoy bloodline with her filth. Never would he have to attend dinner parties at the _Potter_ residence.

Never would he feel complete.

It may have sounded tragic, even to Draco, but in such a harsh truth he found a degree of solace. With love came loss and heartache; without it only numbness. And Draco would much rather have been half the man his potential dictated than a blithering fool forever pining over that which he lost and could never regain. It was better that way. Furthermore, it _had_ to be that way.

"You're so fucking beautiful," Draco groaned into the kiss. "I want you. I've wanted you for so long that it hurts."

Lavender broke away from the kiss to look him in the eye and in that same instant Draco wished she hadn't for it reminded him of what was real. "Me too, Draco. I've dreamt about this moment forever. I can't believe it's actually happening."

Draco quickly clamped his eyes shut. If he concentrated, willed it so, then it was Granger's melodious voice saying those things. It was her pouring out her soul, telling him what he longed to hear. It wasn't the pitiful bint Weasley was dating; it was the woman he couldn't stop thinking about, no matter how hard he tried.

"Tell me how badly you want me," Draco breathed into her skin as he began nibbling on her earlobe. "I need to hear you say it. _Out loud_."

Lavender was only too happy to oblige his whim, but before she could express herself, footsteps nearby caught her attention. Apparently she wasn't the only one as Draco soon removed himself from their embrace and peered through a gap in the shelves to see who it was that was interrupting their intimacy. When he turned back his eyes were wide, and his skin was pale, more so than usual.

"Who is it, Draco?" asked Lavender as she reached out and took hold of his hand, lacing their fingers together.

Draco swallowed the lump in his throat, but still couldn't stop trembling. It was as if fate and his own psyche had together conspired to drive him insane. Every corner turned was potentially perilous, and that had always been true, but as of late the peril had become predictable and even as Draco cursed his luck he knew what would come. He merely considered his worst nightmare and alas, he saw the future.

"It's Granger," he sneered, and the bitterness was genuine. "Get rid of her."

Draco slinked into the shadow cast by a nearby shelf, the flickering candlelight of the inner-library too dim and too far away to provide absolute illumination. When Hermione Granger turned the corner moments later she saw only Lavender Brown, who was staring distractedly at a row of textbooks, idly twirling a strand of dirty-blond hair around her index finger.

"Lavender," Hermione greeted. "I sent you to get that textbook twenty minutes ago. What happened?"

Lavender sighed dramatically, and Hermione got the distinct impression that Transfiguration wasn't responsible.

"Are you okay?" she pressed on, eager to know the truth. "You look a little flushed."

"I'm fine." Lavender grinned. "Perfect, in fact. Here's your book."

"Oh- thanks," said Hermione, taking the book and tucking it under one arm. "Are you coming back? To the common room, I mean. I know the essay isn't due until next week, but-"

"Sorry, Hermione," Lavender cut her short. "There's something else I need to do."

Hermione was about to protest and reiterate the importance of academic commitment, when she stopped and took a proper look at Lavender. Not _only_ was she flushed -and the crimson in her cheeks was rather prominent- but several of the buttons lining the seam of her modest robes were missing, and a glance at the floor told her exactly where they had disappeared to. Either Lavender was having a nervous breakdown or… or…

It suddenly made sense; from Lavender's desire to personally retrieve the textbook to her lengthy absence, and the fact that Ron hadn't been seen in the common room all day. They had both ditched her in favour of a snogging session in the library. Hermione had often wondered where they went to ensure _privacy_. Now, having found out first hand, she felt rather silly and out of place; not only had she interrupted their intimate moment, but she had done so whilst demonstrating the naivety she strived to obscure. The knowledge that Ron was probably hiding round the corner, watching them, was unbelievably embarrassing, and she decided to make herself scarce before she developed a flush of her own.

"Fair enough, Lavender." Hermione smiled coyly. "_Enjoy_ your afternoon."

Hermione left without a backwards glance, but only when the sound of her footsteps ceased entirely did Draco emerge. Lavender melted once more into his embrace and took note of his racing heart. If only she knew.

"I thought she'd never leave," Draco growled, and soon he began to nibble at her earlobe once more. "I do hate interruptions."

"Don't worry about her," Lavender smirked. "Hermione could have caught us making love and still she wouldn't have had a clue what was going on. She's such a prude."

When Draco groaned it wasn't because Lavender pressed her backside into his groin. It was the picture in his head; Hermione Granger's wide eyes, her thought process splayed out across her face; the recognition in her frown, the disgust wrinkling her little nose. And Draco wouldn't stop, because seeing her would be the perfect catalyst. It would make the deception that much easier.

Someone as pure as her witnessing something so primal, so desperate; it was enough to drive him out of his wits. He knew he'd to need plant that very notion in the forefront of his mind if really, truly planned on seeing this farce through to conclusion.

"Why don't we adjourn to someplace a little more… _private_."


	9. Chapter VIII: Creatures of Impulse

"Growing up, we're taught to embrace the things we'll grow out of, because growing out of them is the real test. No matter how hard we kick and scream, it's not supposed to be a happy ending. I knew that, but it didn't stop me. And maybe had you not pandered to me, let me manipulate you, I might have turned into something… something _more_ than I am now. I blame you only because there is no point blaming myself; I am too numb, too far gone, for remorse. I'm a zombie, lifeless, devoid; a shell. I wish that I could speak to you one last time, so you could tell me what to do and how to do it. And if I had a life, a real life, you could tell me how to lead it, because I don't have the faintest clue."

A gentle murmuring woke Lavender from her glorious slumber, and the lingering euphoria brought with it a smile. There was no guilt. No regret. She would have been lying to herself if she thought she could deny what had clearly been, from day one, true love. Destiny. Ron was a great guy, she cared deeply for him, but he couldn't hold a candle to Draco Malfoy.

"But you can't, can you? You've abandoned me when I need you most. It's like all those books I read when I was young; those tales of idealism. Half the narrative concerns the _birth_ of the hero. And always the _hero_ loses something dear to him; his parents, his mentor, his love. Because the hero's journey is wrought with pain, despair, and sacrifice; only through loss can he live up to his potential. But I'm _not_ a hero. Not even close. And I don't want to be, because it's not who I am. It's not who you raised. And I'm already so far from that bright eyed little boy that I can stray no further without losing what little identity I have left."

Lavender forced her tired, bleary eyes open and saw a slept in- but now vacant- spot next to her on the bed. The voice wasn't coming from beside her, in fact it sounded far away. She looked up whilst rubbing the sleep out of her eyes and saw Draco sitting on a rickety old chair by the fireplace. He was in his boxer shorts and a long-sleeved shirt, and even though he looked terribly despondent, she couldn't help but admire his beauty.

"Why couldn't you have left me something? The wealth, the estate, the servants, I am grateful, but it's not what I _need_. I would trade it all in for one last word of advice. Because what good is affluence if you haven't the presence of mind to exploit it? What good is a grand manor when you're destined to die alone? What good is capital if you've nobody to spoil? What good is a name if you've no heir to carry it on? What good am I? I might as well be dead. But you know _that_, don't you? You've seen the dark thoughts that linger in my mind, and you know the drastic measures I called upon. You see it all and still, _nothing_. Oblivion. If you're waiting there for me, and I hope you are, then don't worry; the wait will be short-lived. I won't fail again. A Malfoy doesn't know how to fail at the same thing twice. You taught me that."

Things were coming into focus, beyond the periphery. Draco was staring through the small porthole built into the far wall, and twirling between his slender fingers his wand. Lavender thought that maybe they were not alone, that someone else had entered the room whilst she slept, but she soon realised that wasn't the case. Draco was talking to himself.

"And I suppose, when it comes down to it, that's all I really have left. Your many word's of wisdom. Is it hypocritical of me to ask for advice, and in the same breath admonish that which you've already given me? Because, let me tell you, I'm a mess. Physically, mentally, fuck, spiritually- whatever the hell that even means. And I don't know whether it's my fault for desiring someone not fit to lick the filth off the bottom of your boots, or yours for instilling in me qualities- bigotry, malevolence, indifference- that make me into a man she could never love. Culpability, though, I guess it's irrelevant. Whoever's fault _I am_, I'm still a cancer. I'm still incapable of affection. I'm still just that cold, spiteful little boy to her; and no matter what I do, that will never change."

Lavender wrapped herself in a sheet to hide her shame and then clambered out from Draco's bed. Her toes curled upon contact with the cold, granite floor, but her desire to not disturb Draco was strong and she suppressed a whimper. Either he was ignoring her or he hadn't heard her footsteps, for he was still staring longingly at the porthole, giving it his undivided attention.

"And maybe that's a good thing. I love you. I love you both. Despite myself."

When Draco finished he turned and looked up at Lavender, before rising to his feet and acknowledging her presence with a short, sharp nod of his head. It was unclear whether or not he was aware of her eavesdropping, but he didn't seem fazed either way. He wore a mask of indifference, an empty expression, and even as he pulled his trousers up over his legs and reached for his tie, still, he said nothing.

"Draco?" Lavender ventured bravely. Draco supposed it was her _Gryffindor courage_. Revolting. "Are you okay?"

Draco didn't say anything, but he entwined his tie with the upturned collar of his shirt and stepped towards her. His hand found the small of her back and he pulled her lithe frame against his own and kissed her. She returned his embrace with anxious enthusiasm. He _almost_ pitied her.

"That answer your question?" Draco asked rhetorically, and then he lifted part of his tie up before her eyes and smirked. "Mind helping me with this?"

Lavender was only too happy to oblige and quickly set about tying his green and silver stripped tie into a Windsor knot. When she finished, she ran the back of her hand tenderly over his pale cheek, enamoured and lost in the prefect moment.

"Thanks," said Draco, looking her over. "You should probably get dressed."

A considerable blush rose in Lavender's cheeks as she examined her own attire. Suddenly she felt small and vulnerable under his piercing gaze, realising that, for all intents and purposes, she was at his mercy. And despite the wondrous night they spent together, he still had something of a reputation; a reputation that went beyond his legendary escapades between the sheets. It made her wonder, and wonder soon turned to panic.

"Uh, Draco…" Lavender began tentatively.

Draco was busy searching through the trunk at the foot of his bed for a book, but at the sound of his name he looked up expectantly. "Yes?"

"Last night." She paused, trying to articulate her concern. "What happened, you know, between us. Did it mean as much-"

Before Lavender could go any further, Draco's index finger was pressed against her lips in a shushing motion. Her eyes remained wide, perhaps frightened, even, but Draco played his part and flashed a charming smile. This farce, much like the pawn used to pull it off, was high maintenance. Fortunately, when he needed it to be, patience was a virtue of his.

"You want to know," said Draco _compassionately_. "If I care about you. Or if you're just another notch on my bedpost."

"Well, yes, actually."

"Lavender, reputations are unbecoming of us all. You see, I know what you've heard. That I get around a fair bit. And I won't deny- I'm hardly chaste. But rumours of my promiscuity are greatly exaggerated. So, given the events of last night, I hope you will give me the benefit of the doubt. Just as I will give you the benefit of the doubt in regards to _your_ reputation."

"My reputation," Lavender repeated incredulously. "What reputation?"

"That you're something of a gossip. Now, since I am now promising to meet you outside the library at say seven o'clock this evening, and therefore contradicting my own reputation, I hope you will repay the favour and keep our relationship between you and I. That's fair, isn't it? I scratch your back…" Draco smirked as his hands found the knot in Lavender's sheet and gently pried it apart. "And you scratch mine."

-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --

As much as Hermione loved being Head Girl- and truth be told she had desired it since day one at Hogwarts- she never quite could get used to the constant intrusions. Wherever she went, whatever she did, there was a good chance one of the many school Prefects would find her and reel off a long list of asinine questions. Of course she tolerated it, and put up an indulgent front, but sometimes she wanted desperately to tell each and every one of them exactly where to stick their questions.

Half the answers could be found in _Hogwarts: A History_- which apparently only she had read- whilst the other half required a modicum of common sense. Hermione was almost positive that when she was first a Prefect she was above asking questions such as 'What's the punishment for insubordination?' and 'How do I find the Prefects bathroom?' Then there was her favourite, the frequently asked 'How many house points can I detract at a time?' Wasn't being a Prefect about something more? Only in her wildest dreams.

But, truth be told, Hermione welcomed the distraction. The months spent searching out the Horcruxes- even the memory itself seemed a lifetime away- may have been traumatic and arduous, but all that travelling and waiting around left her with a great deal of downtime that needed to be whittled away. Harry and Ron passed the time playing exploding snap and posing each other such questions as 'What would you do if your left arm was made out of chocolate?' and 'How many different outfits could you wear at one time, whilst still being able to move freely?' Hermione, on the other hand, chose to read. Not unsurprising, really, but it gave her the opportunity to get ahead on Seventh Year curriculum. And so she found herself even further ahead of the rest of the class than usual. After so many years, no one really noticed.

Just as Hermione finished lecturing a sixth year Gryffindor Prefect on the importance of autonomy, Ron strolled casually into the common room and took a seat on the arm of her chair. Given her encounter with Lavender the previous evening, she couldn't help but feel somewhat embarrassed. Ron, on the other hand, seemed rather nonchalant.

"Hey, Hermione," Ron greeted.

"Hello, Ron," said Hermione pleasantly. "I trust all is well."

"S'alright," he mumbled. "Been better, been worse."

"Oh." She smiled an anxious sort of smile. "Well, then, I can at least assume you had a good night last night."

Ron looked at her strangely, "Huh? What are you talking about?"

"Oh, you know," Hermione began, feeling a blush coming along. "Last night… look, I don't actually want to talk about the details. I was just trying to make light of what was, for me at least, an incredibly uncomfortable situation. I guess I failed."

Ron was still looking at her strangely, "Hermione, you're not making any sense."

"You know… in the library last night… you, Lavender…"

"I haven't seen Lavender since breakfast yesterday," he interjected. "Frankly, I needed some time away from her, you know; just to clear my head."

Hermione's brow furrowed; she was utterly perplexed. "Ron, there's really no need to be embarrassed or ashamed. What you were doing was perfectly natural, and I'm your friend. Just because I'm a girl don't assume I can't stand hearing people talk about _it_. I am as open-minded as the next person. So please, just be honest with me. What are friends for if you can't talk about things like that?"

Ron looked around the room, left then right and up then down, before his gaze fell once more on Hermione. "Are you reliving a dream you had last night?"

"No, Ron!" she said, exasperated. "This really happened."

"Oh," Ron nodded. "Well, I still don't know what you're talking about. I promise, cross my heart and hope to die, that I was nowhere near the library last night. And like I said, I haven't seen Lavender since yesterday morning."

The imminent sense of foreboding, which set in as realization occurred, left Hermione staring nervously at the far side of the room. Suddenly she was confronted with so many unwelcome implications, and she was right in the middle of them all.

Of course it was possible that Hermione's assumption had been incorrect. Everything she saw the previous evening could be explained in alternate, but no less rational, terms. And didn't Lavender deserve the benefit of the doubt? Wasn't she innocent until proven guilty? An un-tucked shirt and flushed cheeks hardly formed good basis for an allegation of infidelity.

But didn't Ron have a right to know either way? If the possibility existed, no matter how remote, that she was cheating on him, then as his best friend wasn't she obligated to share what she little she knew? But what if she was wrong and they split up because of conjecture? She would end up looking jealous and conniving, and probably break her friend's heart in the process. Not to mention Lavender who, no matter Hermione's opinion of her, didn't deserve to be hurt in such a way or to have her reputation sullied because of hearsay.

Hermione had been so sure though of what she saw. She wasn't an expert by any means, but it had made sense. That one explanation had answered all her questions; it had sated her interminable curiosity. How could she have been so wrong? How could she have been so stupid?

"So, what's this all about, Hermione?" asked Ron.

"Oh, nothing," said Hermione, trying desperately to improvise an answer. "It's just that I was in the library last night and I could have _sworn_ I saw you and Lavender studying by the window. I must have been mistaken though, right?"

"Right." Ron smiled, seemingly convinced.

Hermione hated lying to anyone. But lying to her best friend? She was disgusted with herself. She was no better than… than _him_. It was exactly what _he_ would have done. Only she could take solace in the fact that whilst in her case it was the exception, in _his _it was the rule.

-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --

From his vantage point at the heart of the Slytherin house table, Draco could see virtually everything that went on in the Great Hall. Of course, this meant that there were several other parallel vantage points around the room, from which any one person could be watching _him_. But he highly doubted they had his talent for stealth, or the wits to pull it off. And so even as he chatted idly with Blaise and Pansy, and he was almost certain that it was Nott's voice that kept trying to interrupt, he was able to scan his surroundings for _her_ without being forced to worry about any possible consequences.

"…I still say it's terribly poor form to _ask_ for sex under any circumstances," Blaise intoned. "Wouldn't you agree, Draco?"

"But what's the difference, Blaise," Pansy countered, before Draco had a chance to object. "Between asking for it and coming on so strong that it's obvious that's exactly what you want. It may not be romantic, but sometimes I'd rather the person just come out and say it. No point hiding behind foreplay."

"I think you're both idiots," Draco said seriously, but it wasn't long before his façade tempered and he flashed a smirk.

"Has Draco ever asked you for sex?" Blaise asked innocently enough.

Pansy hesitated for a moment. "Not exactly."

Blaise wiggled his eyebrows. "Have _you_ ever asked Draco for sex?"

"You don't have to answer that," Draco murmured.

"Yes she does," said Nott from a few seats over. "You know she does."

Draco sighed. "Do you three mind if I leave you to it?"

"Going somewhere, Draco?" asked Blaise.

"No. I just wish to excuse myself from the conversation."

The four of them fell into silence, and eventually Nott rejoined the conversation across from him. Draco and Blaise both paid due attention to the half eaten meals in front of them. Pansy, on the other hand, remained vigilant, and as such it was she who brought an end to the silence.

"Draco, can you tell me _why_ Lavender Brown and Parvati Patil are gawking at you?"

Blaise looked over, and his lips were quivering with suppressed laughter as he turned back. Seeing Draco nod his head disbelievingly sent him over the edge and he snorted his amusement. Not the most attractive of gestures, but the look on his friends face was utterly priceless.

"I hate you, Blaise," Draco groaned. "I really do."

"What?" Pansy whined. "What's so funny? Blaise, Draco… tell me!"

"I wish I had a camera." Blaise licked his lips. "If only I could capture your expression."

Draco sneered at him. "Why don't you capture you testicles in a nutcracker?"

"I forgot how sensitive you are, Draco." Blaise chuckled.

"If someone doesn't tell me what's going on I'm going to scream," Pansy threatened.

Silence again came over them, and it stayed that way until Blaise's laughter died down sufficiently so he could force his next words out.

"If the silly grin on Lavender Brown's surprisingly attractive face is any indication, I'd say Draco fucked her brains out last night."

"And you just had to say it, didn't you, Blaise?" Draco heaved sigh. "Can't keep _anything_ to yourself."

"He's not... serious, is he Draco?" Pansy asked, panicked. "Please tell me you didn't sleep with her."

"I didn't sleep with her," Draco deadpanned, and Blaise started to laugh again.

Pansy gave a pout. "You're lying."

"And your powers of deduction never cease to amaze me."

Pansy's pout deepened into a scowl as she looked first at Draco and then at Blaise. Apparently they saw it all as one big joke, and the idea that she was the punch line didn't seem to faze them at all. Well, she'd had enough; she was positively sick of being treated like dirt. She rose from the bench, straightened out her robes and glowered at each of then in turn. And then she was gone.

"What got her panties in a twist?"

-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --

Pansy did not _storm_ out of the Great Hall. She walked out dignified and ladylike, with her head held high. The last thing she wanted to do was cause a scene, or let Draco know just how easily he could upset her. He knew though, and she knew he knew, but it was easier too pretend. It was easier to imagine her way out of despondency.

Pansy had never been particularly strong willed. So when she wanted, or needed, to cry, that is exactly what she did. And if anyone had a problem, she was only too happy to terrorize them in return.

The dungeon staircase seemed like an adequate enough spot and she seated herself down on the top step and indulged her emotions. People coming and going from the Great Hall could still see her, and had she foreseen her visitor she might have rethought the whole thing. But it was too late. Tears were a beacon for people like _her_.

"Pansy?" said the stupid, unattractive, trumped-up little Mudblood behind her. "Are you okay?"

Pansy whirled around, still crying, and with her index finger wagging threateningly in front of Granger's face. "_YOU_!"

"Pardon?!" Granger looked gobsmacked. At least she had the common decency to hide the fact that she was a boyfriend stealing little trollop.

"Don't get cute with me, Mudblood. I know all about you and Draco."

"_Malfoy_… but there's nothing…"

"Save it, Granger. I know. He's started hanging around in the library, just like you. And he's growing distant. He even calls your name out whilst he sleeps. You can keep denying it, but I don't _need_ confirmation."

Hermione cursed her compassion. She thought she was doing the right thing by coming and seeing if she was alright. The Good Samaritan though was rarely appreciated, and all she got was outrageous- and more importantly untrue- accusations, and an unpleasant earful. Since the War's end only Draco Malfoy had called her a Mudblood. Apparently Pansy Parkinson hadn't kicked the habit yet, either.

"Honestly, Pansy, there's nothing going on between Malfoy and I. If he's told you differently-"

"I hate you," Pansy interrupted. "I hate you with every fibre in my body. I've loved Draco since we were little; just two children running around without a care in the world. What we had grew and grew, and I thought we were going to be together forever. Then that _fucking_ War had to happen and he changed. He's not the same person he used to be. The old Draco Malfoy wouldn't look twice at a filthy Mudblood. Even you know that."

Hermione realised that he girl couldn't be reasoned with at the best of times, so in her heightened emotional state the likelihood grew worse still. So she did what she should have done from the very beginning. She started to walk away.

"Before you piss off, Mudblood," Pansy sneered, unable to resist one last slight. "There's something you ought to know."

Hermione stopped, although she wished she hadn't. Curiosity killed the cat. "What is it?"

"You probably didn't see your _boyfriend_ last night. Want to know why? He was busy fucking Lavender Brown."

For reasons beyond her immediate comprehension, that revelation not only made sense, but it hurt to hear. The picture planted in her head, and she was forced to watch over and over as Draco Malfoy and Lavender Brown violated the sanctity of her mind. How could she do that? How could he do that?

Hermione expected Malfoy to be an arse. It was what he did best. But this was a new low, because she knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that he didn't care about Lavender. He didn't love her. He was using her. Whether it was to upset Pansy, wind up Ron or even, god forbid, make her jealous, it still stood out as extraordinarily callous and unfeeling. How could the person who had poured his heart out to her to be so vindictive? He had kissed her and acted like a scolded child when she discouraged him, and yet he had no problem _sleeping _with someone else. Someone who was in a serious relationship.

She didn't even consider Lavender's place in the appalling travesty, her mind far too consumed with any and all implications concerning Draco Malfoy. It changed everything. What she had seen since the year began suddenly held a different meaning, and it became clear that the affection he tried so desperately to _conceal_ had just been part of a greater deception. Underneath it all he was still the same cold, spiteful little boy he had always been. And that would _never_ change.

* * *

_Bit disappointed to see that although twenty-four of you have this story on your 'alerts' list, it has only received that many reviews over the course of EIGHT chapters. Please guys, if you're taking the time to read then take the time to review. I'll continue updating the story regardless of whether or not you review, but it would be nice if you expressed your appreciation. I welcome any manner of feedback with open arms, as long as you're honest._


	10. Chapter IX: Love Is

Love was, above all else, a gradual thing. Nobody was unfortunate enough to wake up one morning and feel a sudden infatuation with another human being. And, no matter what certain people told you, love at first sight did not exist. People with at least half a brain called that lust; and while perhaps lust was love's inevitable precursor, they were by no means one and the same. Only through experience did that become apparent.

So how did Draco Malfoy, the Patron Saint of apathy, come to understand the meaning of love?

Whilst growing up under his Mother's care, she tried relentlessly to articulate such a thing. She preached to him its importance, and stressed the fact that ultimately it touched each and every one of them. But being young, and naïve, he was unable to emphasize with her point of view. Because the way she described love made it sound very unappealing. Words like addiction, devotion and adoration frightened him. As a boy certain innocuous charms were placed upon him as punishment for misbehaving, but love sounded far worse than anything his Father held up his wicked sleeve. More to the point, the very idea of love seemed to contradict the words of wisdom both parents had shared with him over time, and therefore it opposed the Malfoy dogma; something to which he had always aspired.

The conflicting advice served only to confuse young Draco. Instead of striving to understand that which eluded him, he decided to leave the matter alone. If love was anything like his Mother described then he neither needed nor wanted to experience it. And being steadfast in his conviction, he was sure that would never change.

As he grew older, wiser perhaps, he began to indulge in the fairer sex. At various points of heightened pleasure between the sheets, he was foolish enough to believe that love was attainable. But then he would come down from his euphoric high, stare at the creature beside him and realise what it was he felt; a yearning to control. Not in a kinky 'let's get out the whips and chains' sort of way, but more so as a manner of speaking. He loved not the woman he was with, but the hold he had over her. Pansy Parkinson illustrated this point perfectly.

If Draco asked her to jump, she asked how high. If Draco asked her to get on her knees and service him, then she would get down there so fast she had carpet burns for a week. And if Draco asked her to speak to him whilst they had sex, to tell him how much she loved him, she didn't ask for the same in return. She just did it. For so many years this, and this alone, formed the basis for his understanding of love.

Draco realised that it wasn't love as his Mother interpreted it, but then, he didn't believe what his Mother told him was entirely true. What he had with Pansy was as close as he would ever get, and he took solace, for it contented them both.

Then the War happened, and something inside of him, something pivotal, changed. He supposed all involved changed in some way, but he felt like a different person. When the fall of Voldemort was announced he rejoiced, as they all did. But as he sat alone in Malfoy Manor, with only the occasional rustling and whispering of the house elves to keep him company, he realised that while the Wizarding World would live to fight another day, he had lost everything. Everything he _loved_.

And then he realised.

Draco didn't waste any time owling Pansy and telling her to get her gorgeous arse to him immediately. He wanted, he needed, to consummate their love. He was almost ashamed it took him so long to figure out what it was they shared. And Pansy was only too happy to oblige.

The epiphany though was by its very nature deceiving. Pansy looked as beautiful as ever before and she was _willing_, as always. But he choked. He trembled. And for the first time in his life, he couldn't rise to the occasion; mentally or… _physically_. She didn't laugh. She didn't sneer. She instead placed her hand on his thigh and tried to placate his woes. It was killing him though, and he lost himself. He sent her away in nothing but her underwear and sobbed himself to sleep. He died a thousand deaths that evening.

Only when another epiphany struck was he able to conquer his despair. And this epiphany wasn't able to deceive him, for he was already far too numb to notice the difference. When Hermione Granger hit him that first time epiphany became euphoria and euphoria helped him forget. It was the single most wonderful feeling he had felt. Better than Quidditch. Better than sex. Better than life. And until he realised that never again could he experience that sensation, he was content.

Then it left him, and more so than ever before he needed to fill the void. It wasn't a choice. It was beyond his control. If it had been up to him then Hermione Granger wouldn't even have been deemed worthy of consideration. Literally anyone or anything was preferable. He was overridden though, and suddenly she consumed him. That was why he kissed her; a sudden onslaught of crippling psychosis. Because she was an ugly, uninteresting know-it-all and therefore _actual_ attraction on any level was impossible. Even she must have wondered why someone so handsome would look twice at her.

No one rejected Draco Malfoy. No one. As far as he was concerned, he could seduce Veelas in his sleep. But not Hermione Granger. Whether because she was too much of a prude or she was otherwise inclined, she opted out of the kiss. She spurned his advances. And instead of being reassured, and common sense indicated that was exactly how he should have felt, he was scared out his wits. Because suddenly he adored her for standing firm. Suddenly he was devoted to making her his. Suddenly, she was an addiction. And those three words echoed around and around in his skull, spoken in Narcissa Malfoy's melodious song; _addiction_, _devotion_ and _adoration_.

And again he realised; only this time it was for real.

Draco Malfoy _loved_ Hermione Granger.

When the whole Lavender Brown farce first began, he fooled himself into thinking that it could _cure_ him. Rid him of his recent realisation. But three weeks in bed with a woman he could barely stand only fuelled his desire to make Hermione Granger his. She didn't know it, and she never would, but she was his _everything_.

"Oh, fuck, Draco. Fuck!" the impassioned moaning and groaning of Lavender Brown cut through his reverie. "So good!"

She was beneath him- both literally and figuratively. It seemed he could bring her to the brink with very little effort. Weasley must not have excelled in the bedroom, just as he failed to excel anywhere else. Draco quickly shut his eyes and forced the image of that wanker out of his head. He wanted to orgasm, not vomit.

As Draco growled into her ear he wondered vaguely whether Granger's tits were quite so pert; or if she tasted as sweet. He wondered what she would look like- what face she would make- as she climaxed. He wondered how the name Draco would sound coming from her lips when there was nothing holding her back. He wondered whether she would be more so perfect in the afterglow.

"Draco," Lavender whimpered. "You're so big."

Not even flattery made him any more attracted to her. Physically, she offered just enough, but she was otherwise repulsive. He didn't bother to respond verbally, but kept pumping into her until he could tell she was close; then he brought about his own orgasm by using his imagination and placing Hermione Granger's lithe form beneath him. It was enough. It was always enough.

Draco released into her noiselessly and collapsed back onto his side of the bed. Several moments were spent in silence before she rolled over and ran her index finger along his sweat drenched torso. She had a nauseatingly sweet smile on her face and he desperately wanted to wipe it free.

"That was wonderful, Draco," she simpered. "As always."

Lavender never asked how it was for him. And he was glad, because if she had he wasn't sure how convincing his lie would be. Euphoria had a way of deceiving you; of making you lose absolute control over the things you said. The amount of times _her_ name had been upon his lips in the heat of the moment, he was fortunate not to have slipped up.

As he looked over at his bedside clock and checked the time, it suddenly occurred to him the futility of maintaining the farce. He had proved to Blaise that he wasn't in love with Granger. He had proved to himself that no matter his feelings, he could still maintain an intimate physical relationship with someone else. He had even proven to Lavender what a pathetic little bint she was. He did love putting people in their rightful places.

"Lavender, when's my birthday?"

"Uh," Lavender's hesitation was due to surprise, and not ignorance. Though she was ignorant enough. "June 5th, Draco. Why?"

"What colour are my eyes?"

"Grey," she answered without sparing a glance.

"Who is my Godfather?"

"Professor Snape, isn't it?"

Draco lifted himself out of bed, spent a moment stretching his still aching muscles, then reached for a nearby dressing gown and draped it over his shoulders. He wasn't sure he wanted to be naked for what was to come.

"Lavender, before you and I entered into this… _relationship_, had we any prior acquaintance? Had we ever even spoke to one another?"

"Well, no, but—"

"You see," Draco interrupted. "I am not who you think I am, and yet I've had you figured out since day one. You're obsessed, aren't you? Only, I'm not sure which part of me you are enamoured with. Is it the money? The name? The reputation? Either way, you wouldn't be the first nor, dare I say it, the last. Lavender, do you see where I'm going with this?"

Lavender was staring up at him through wide, bleary eyes. Apparently she wasn't at dim-witted as he had been led to believe.

"But—but you said you loved me?"

"Love you?" Draco rolled his eyes. "I don't even like you, Brown. All you've ever been to me is a subtle annoyance. I _suppose_ you were an adequate shag, but that's about it."

Lavender stayed silent for a moment, and were it not for that vacant stare she seemed to wear like a badge of honour, she may even have appeared contemplative. Before Draco had a chance to show her the door, she started to cry. And her wailing was unbearable.

"It's someone else, isn't it? You've met someone else?"

"You're the whore that cheated on her boyfriend," Draco sneered. "I'm just the guy unfortunate enough to get tangled up in the mess that is your life."

Lavender's hysteria only grew worse still and she got up onto her knees, stark naked, and crawled across the bed towards him. It really was a pathetic sight to behold. Did the girl have no dignity?

"Please, Draco. Please. Whatever made you change your mind about me, I can help change it back."

"Change my mind? Have you not been listening to me? I fucked you as a joke. You were a means to an end. I have more emotional investment in my sponge than I do in you. You're nothing. You're no one. Why don't you go back to that deplorable Neanderthal you call a boyfriend and _beg_ for forgiveness? If there's one thing I've learned over the last few weeks it's that Lavender Brown loves to beg."

Draco began to search the room for her clothes, discarded hastily the night before. He hurriedly bundled the various items into his arms as he picked them up off the floor, and when he was sure he'd gathered everything he tossed the pile towards her.

"I might feel guilty if you weren't so easy to manipulate; if I was actually forced to put some effort into the deception. But you're just a pathetic little girl with stars too big for eyes. I expect you to be gone by the time I return. And take your shit with you; I don't want you to have an excuse to see me again."

Draco retreated into the bathroom and locked the door behind him. The door handle started to jerk from side to side before he even had a chance to get a good look at his reflection in the mirror, and frenzied screeching could quite clearly be heard through what appeared to be relatively thin wood. Only when the noise ceased entirely did Draco disrobe and begin his morning routine.

-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --

"Look, mate, just be honest with her. That's all you have to do."

Ron rolled his eyes. Harry Potter may have been The Boy Who Lived, but his relationship advice left a lot to be desired. "Real original, Harry."

Harry sighed. "Yeah, well, I don't think they give out awards for originality when it comes to dumping your girlfriend."

"When you say it like that it makes me sound like a real arse," said Ron.

"I call it like I see it, Ron," Harry replied cheerfully. "Seriously though, just stop worrying about it. Next time you see Lavender, tell her how you feel and go from there. What's the worst that can happen?"

"She could tell the whole school that I have a tiny dick…"

Harry starred at him for a moment, eyes wide, and then burst out laughing.

"Not that I do have a small dick," Ron elaborated nervously. "But you know what they say; _hell hath no fury like a woman scorned_. And I think Lavender is pretty obsessed with me, so things might get ugly."

Harry was laughing so much now that he was having trouble breathing properly, and his cheeks had taken on a reddish tinge. He was hiccupping violently in a vain attempt to force air into his lungs.

"It wasn't that funny," Ron muttered irritably. "And I've never actually had any complaints."

When finally Harry's laughter ceased, and it was a good minute or so, he sat up straight in his chair, smirked, and patted Ron on the shoulder. He didn't mean to take the piss, or have a laugh at his mate's expense, but sometimes he just couldn't help himself.

"So you're definitely going to do it?" Harry asked whilst wiping a tear from his cheek. "Because once you do, there will be no going back."

Ron hesitated for a moment and then lowered his voice. "Be honest, will you…

"About what?"

"I'm going to ask Hermione if, you know…"

Harry paused, and then frowned when he picked up on Ron's meaning. "If she'll go out with you?"

"Yeah." Ron nodded eagerly. "What do you think?"

"I think that's a bad idea, mate. You know, maybe in the future, but not right now."

"What? Why not right now? You told me she fancied me. So what's the problem?"

"The problem," Harry whispered, wary of eavesdroppers in the common room. "Is that right now, asking her out would be the dumbest thing you could do. I know for a fact she'll say no, and it will probably end up putting a dent on your friendship. Then what's going to happen to me? You know what it's like when you two at odds with each other? I can't stand it. So take my advice, mate. Not right now."

Ron scowled and opened his mouth to reply but all of a sudden the portrait hole to the common room swung open with a loud crash and Lavender Brown stomped inside, bawling her eyes out. Before Ron, or Harry for that matter, could realise what was happening, she ran right past them, up the stairs and into her dorm room. Only after the door slammed shut could they no longer hear her cry.

Again, Ron opened his mouth, but whatever he had to say this time was interrupted by Hermione's puffing and panting as she jogged into the common room. She was apparently following Lavender's trail. As she turned to look at her two best friends she couldn't help but release a sigh.

"Hermione, what the hell is going on?" asked Ron, finally able to speak his mind. "What was that about?"

"Uh—well," Hermione stammered, mulling over her limited options. "It's not really my place to say, Ron. You'll have to ask Lavender."

"No," said Ron heatedly. "She's hauled herself up in her bedroom and you know I can't go in there, so you're going to tell me. You're going to tell me what's gotten her so upset."

Hermione pursed her lips, furious with Ron for putting her in such a situation and asking her to betray someone's confidence. She looked to Harry for a helping hand, but he gave only a shrug and what appeared to be an apologetic smile. Why did he always do that?

"I can't, Ron. You know I can't."

"We're best friends," Ron cried indignantly. "And best friends tell each other everything."

Hermione looked aghast. "Ronald, how dare you play the best friend card with me?! If you were my best friend you wouldn't pressure me into telling you this. You'd have far more respect for me than that."

"She has a point, mate," said Harry meekly, already wishing he hadn't gotten involved.

"Fuck sake, Harry," Ron whined. "Why do you always after to take her side?"

"My side! My side, Ronald! Harry's just using his common sense. You might like to try doing the same sometime."

"Would you lot mind shutting up?" Neville Longbottom called out from the other side of the room, his head buried in an almost ceiling high stack of books. "I've got this essay due in tomorrow morning and I haven't even started the introduction."

Hermione was tempted to say, 'well you should have thought of that earlier', but realized Neville's outburst had for the moment shut Ron up. And so she was grateful. Once more her compassion had been her downfall, but as he saw Lavender Brown out in the Transfiguration courtyard, a veritable sea of heads closing in on her, Hermione knew she couldn't just leave the matter alone.

The last three weeks- between her finding out about Lavender and Malfoy up until the present point in time- had flown right by; simply because she'd decided to embrace denial. If that was what everyone else was going to do then why should she be any different? So she denied any and all feelings she had for the loathsome Draco Malfoy. She denied knowledge of his sordid affair with Lavender. And she denied the crippling jealousy that struck whenever she imagined the two of them… fornicating. And quite surprisingly, she enjoyed denial. She enjoyed ignoring the thoughts and feelings that otherwise overwhelmed her. But in the back of her mind she knew the experience couldn't last.

Lavender's _broken heart_ brought an end to her denial, and once more she was forced to face the truth. And after time spent wallowing in ignorance, it was more so confronting than ever before. Realizing that she _wanted_ Draco Malfoy despite everything he had done, and everything he continued to do, frightened the life out of her.

Did she _love_ him? Did she want to know the answer to that question?

The sound of stomping, someone descending the spiral staircase and entering into the common room, told her Lavender had returned. Her eyes were still teary, her breathing ragged; and though she had washed the smeared make-up from her face, she looked no less despondent. Every one in the room, even Neville who still hadn't started his introduction, turned to gawk at Lavender. Her bottom lip was trembling.

"Ron," she began. "Ron, I love you."

And without hesitating, without waiting for reciprocation, she flung herself onto him and wrapped him in a desperate embrace. Ron's expression was vacant at first, but eventually he forced a smile and returned the gesture.

"Yeah, Lavender." He nodded. "I do too."

"Let's leave these two love birds to it, Hermione," said Harry as he came up behind her. "Let them kiss and make up."

Harry obviously hadn't seen the look on Hermione's face, because if he had then he would certainly have rethought what he said. Her brow was furrowed to an unattractive extreme and she was fortunate that looks couldn't kill; otherwise she might have found herself in some serious trouble.

"Lavender!" Hermione cried, outraged.

Lavender looked over Ron's shoulder at her and smiled. "Yes, Hermione?"

Suddenly her compassion went out of the window and she was furious with herself for consoling Lavender to begin with. What did Ron and Malfoy see in that nitwit? Sure, she was pretty. Hermione considered her a great deal prettier than herself, in fact. But that wasn't enough, was it? Ron was perhaps shallow but Malfoy—despite all his inherent flaws, she had been witness to the great depth that was his soul. Did he put that to one side when he was with Lavender?

"Hermione, let's go," Harry mumbled into her ear, tugging at the sleeve of her robe.

The room was silent and people were slowly edging closer so as to get a better view.

"No, Harry. Not until she tells him the truth!" Hermione said with an uncharacteristic sneer curling her lip. "Lavender, why were you crying earlier?"

Lavender regarded Hermione pleasantly. "Oh, that? Silly me, I couldn't find—"

"Lavender slept with Malfoy!" Hermione snapped. "That's why she was crying."

The growing crowd surrounding them gasped collectively and Ron slowly removed himself from Lavender's embrace. He'd always been quick to anger- almost constantly hot under the collar- but something in his distant gaze worried even Harry and Hermione. Lavender had the good decency to look scandalized, but Ron was no longer paying her any attention. He was blinking, over and over again. He looked almost contemplative in his unspoken fury; as if formulating a plan.

Everyone in the room was waiting for Ron to open up. They could see in the way he drew his shoulders back and took a deep breath, but they wanted to hear him say it out loud. Even Lavender, despite everything, looked expectantly up at him. When he turned to leave only Hermione bucked up the courage to question him.

"Ron, where are you going?"

Ron looked back over his shoulder, still blinking, and spoke in the calmest of voices, "I'm going to kill him. I'm going to kill Draco Malfoy."


	11. Chapter X: Fallout

The labyrinth of hallways and corridors that was Hogwarts interior meant the likelihood that Hermione would find Malfoy first- before Ron and his _posse_, at least- was reliant almost entirely on luck. Starting in the library, she made her way to every possible hangout of his. But he was nowhere to be seen. She assumed that if Draco Malfoy didn't want to be found, then he could quite easily remain hidden. Though perhaps that was wishful thinking.

At Ron's earlier declaration of Malfoy's impending death, Hermione had sneaked off to one side and made herself invisible. She was thankful for the distraction Harry caused whilst trying to restrain him, but she didn't have time to stick around and see whether or not his effort was in vain. She had to go do the right thing.

At least she told herself she was doing the right thing. It was easier to blame her own compassion than to stop and ask herself _why_ she was so concerned. It was expected of her to object, of course; to make sure Ron didn't go over the proverbial edge; to be the voice of reason. But she didn't care about Ron and she certainly didn't care about reason. In that moment she cared only about Draco Malfoy. She had to help him, because it was obvious he didn't want to help himself.

When finally she finished her exhaustive search of the castle, she stepped outside and felt the flush of a cool breeze. It was nearing the middle of winter, after all, and she was grateful that she dressed accordingly. The Transfiguration courtyard seemed an unlikely hiding place for Malfoy, but it was on the way and she was fast running out of options. When she saw him seated on one of the many ornate stone benches littered symmetrically around the courtyard itself, and took note that he was unscathed, she heaved a sigh so intense that her knees started to tremble.

Malfoy was lying on his back, an open book resting on his abdomen and a half-eaten, shiny green apple in the hand that wasn't acting as a makeshift cushion. He looked bored, but then, Malfoy always looked somewhat bored, even whilst playing Quidditch. The realisation that she had in the past watched him during Quidditch games wasn't worth thinking about. Not with everything else going on.

As fast as her short legs would take her, she rushed over to him. She was slightly out of breath, having run from one side of the castle to the other, but she managed a smile. It was more than mere relief overriding her emotions. It was him. It was Draco Malfoy. The boy she, for some inexplicable reason, had grown to _love_. Then he had to open his mouth and spoil everything.

"Afternoon, Mudblood," came his lethargic drawl. "How's life?"

Words. That was all they were. Words she could have shrugged off not long ago. Now though, they sent a searing jolt through her very soul and made her chest feel like it was about to implode. How could four words bring her to the verge of tears? How could he so easily break her heart in two? What was it he had that every other male she found halfway attractive seemed to lack? If only love were a choice.

But regardless of how she felt, he couldn't be allowed to know just how strong and immediate an effect his whim had on her emotional state. Because he would manipulate that. He would use her emotions as a weapon against her, bend her to his will, and loving the most loathsome human being she knew would be the least of her concerns.

"Malfoy," she greeted, but her resolve faltered right away. She could feel the oncoming tears, and her breath hitched in the back of her throat. At this, he sat up and regarded her indifferently, although at least he had the sense of decency to look her in eye. "Malfoy—I thought I should warn you that Ron found out about you and Lavender and is looking for you. So—there you go."

Hermione felt like she was stabbing herself in the back just by giving him the heads up. Maybe she shouldn't have warned him. Maybe he deserved to get beaten up by Ron. Maybe he deserved worse. His stare was too much for her to endure and she turned to leave, but his long, slender fingers snatched her wrist, and not for the first time she let him prevent her hasty exit.

"Why?" he asked, innocently enough.

"Why what, Malfoy?" she replied, still facing away.

"Why do you go out of your way to help someone you hate? What is your fucking problem? Are you stupid? Do you think I'd come and warn you if Pansy was on her way to smash your face in? Well, do you?"

Hermione bit her trembling lip. "I—I don't know."

"Think."

"I don't bloody well know, okay, Malfoy?!" she cried.

Next thing she knew Malfoy was up off the bench, towering over her from behind, still holding her wrist. Without warning he spun her around and fixed her with his piercing gaze, titling her chin up just to do so.

"The answer is no," he sneered. "Do you know what I would do? I would stay and watch. I would cheer her on as she beat the starch out of your knickers. I might even get a little turned on. By a Mudblood, no less. Unfortunately, then I would have to retreat to the nearest bathroom, force my fingers down my throat and purge the very thought from my mind. Because behind your pretty little nose and your big brown eyes, there exists everything I hate in this world."

Hermione wiped away at her tears, and took a deep a breath. "You're a monster."

"Tell me something I don't know."

"I hate you."

Draco smirked. "I knew that."

Hermione was about to make another attempt to escape, but before her brain could send the appropriate signal to her body his lips were on hers—forceful, passionate and intoxicating. His hand dug into her hip and he yanked her towards him; he wanted her to _feel_ what she did to him. No matter how much of prude she was, she must have known that it wasn't his wand pressed against her. In that moment he was desperate to see inside her head and find out exactly what was on her mind. Disgust? Fear? Arousal, perhaps? Either one would have spurred him on.

Hermione despised herself for it, but she was responding vigorously. And not unconsciously, either, as before. Her experience was limited, so she had to make-do with moving her lips against his, following his lead. When he pressed against her she trembled, but a tight knot coiled and uncoiled in the pit of her stomach, telling her exactly what she wanted: Draco Malfoy. And either he wanted her too, or he was playing a very cruel game. For the moment at least, she didn't care which. She needed him.

Then, just as his tongue found it's way into her mouth, it was gone. He was gone. Her lips were still moving in a vain attempt to find his when she opened her eyes to see Draco lying on the floor, Ron Weasley stood over him, and an entire crowd gathered around.

"So this is your game, is it, Malfoy?" asked Ron as he took hold of Malfoy's hair. "Forcing yourself upon helpless girls. You're fucking sick. First my girlfriend, then my best friend. I'm starting to think this is personal."

Hermione held up her hand and was about to protest when Ron, still holding Malfoy, drove his fist into the boy's jaw. The sickening thud of bone against bone caused the crowd to gasp collectively, and Draco fell back limp against the grass below.

"You know, I've always hated you. But this is just too much, even for you."

Draco was forcing himself onto all fours, using his elbows and knees to support his weight, when suddenly Ron drove his foot into his midsection and he fell groaning to the ground once more. Hermione jumped in front of Ron, pressed her hands against his chest and pleaded with him.

"Ron, please, it's not like that. He didn't force himself upon me."

"Don't lie, Hermione," Ron said severely. "There's no way you would willingly snog this scumbag."

Draco again tried to get up, and again Ron knocked him back down with a kick to the midsection. This time Hermione grabbed hold of the front of Ron's jumper and pushed him away.

"I am not lying, Ronald! I kissed him. I came onto him. I wanted it. You cannot beat him up when he is not the one responsible. If you are going to punish someone, punish me."

Draco was spluttering behind them; taking deep, ragged breaths. "She is lying, Weasley. But you know what she's like. Always has to have a cause to fight for. I forced myself upon her, and if you hadn't got here sooner I would have deflowered the little bitch. I would have—"

Weasley's fist driven square into his nose stopped Draco short. And he was pretty sure, almost immediately, that it was broken.

"Shut up, Draco!" Hermione cried.

"Draco?!" Ron repeated. "Since when has he been Draco?"

"Ron, he didn't force himself upon me _or_ Lavender. I'm your best friend. Believe me. Lavender cheated on you. She willingly slept with him. And I willingly kissed him. That is the _truth_. Why would I lie?"

Hermione was positioned between Ron and Draco, and the crowd had formed a tight circle around them. They were all absolutely silent, still, moving only to glance at one another before returning their attention back to the scene unfolding. It was morbidly fascinating.

With some effort, Draco forced himself to his feet and everyone got a good look at him. The crimson of a bloody nose and split lip formed a striking contrast against his pale skin and fair hair. He was clutching his ribs with one hand, and his breathing sounded rather odd. He was clearly struggling just to stand.

"Alright," said Ron. "Shows over you lot. I think he's learned his lesson."

The crowd stayed planted even as Ron turned to leave. Hermione stepped towards Draco to see if he was alright, and he immediately shrugged her off.

"Where are you going, you bloody coward?" Draco called out after him. "I'm still standing! I haven't learnt a thing! Come back here and finish the job."

Hermione whimpered. "Shut up, Draco! Just shut up!"

Ron sighed and turned back around. He looked from Hermione, then to Malfoy. The two of them were standing awfully close, and as much as such a simple thing pissed him off, he knew when enough was enough. "No. You're finished, Malfoy. I don't need to waste my time with you."

Draco wouldn't be denied though. Not by a Weasley. "That's how it is, is it? I'm not worthy of your time? Well, maybe you're not seeing the situation with absolute clarity."

Draco grabbed hold of Hermione's shoulders and pulled her against him. His hands moved up to her neck, clutched gently at her throat, and he even had the audacity to grin.

"Get your filthy hands off her, Malfoy!"

Draco made a show of burying his nose into her thick mass of curls and inhaling deeply. He looked over her shoulder at Weasley before turning his head to one side and running his tongue up and along her tear strewn cheek. "Mhmm," he murmured. "She tastes so fucking good, Weasley. So good. Better even than your girlfriend."

As Ron charged towards him, fists clenched, Draco pushed Hermione out of harms way and braced himself for the blow that sent him flying backwards. This time it looked like he wasn't getting up and the crowd gathered around his prone form, poking and prodding him.

"What have you done, Ron?" Hermione sobbed.

"What?! I saved you."

"I don't need saving." She pushed him hard in the chest and was about to force her way through the crowd when it parted of its own accord and Draco stepped through unsteadily, brushing by her. His features were swollen black and blue, blood was running from several abrasions spotted around his pale face and his perfect white-blond hair was streaked with dirt. It occurred to her as Draco approached Ron once more that Draco didn't merely want to loathe himself; he wanted other people to loathe him too.

"I'm still standing, Weasley."

"Oh, I'm fucking sick of you, Malfoy," said Ron grabbing him once more by the hair and shoving him forward in front of the gathered crowd. "Does anyone here even like this sorry excuse for a human being? Can anyone stand being in the same room as him?"

No one nodded, No one answered. No one even looked like they might in their wildest dreams have said yes.

"What about you, Hermione?" asked Ron, pushing Malfoy towards her.

"Yeah, Mudblood," Draco lisped, blood running over his swollen lip. "What 'bout you?"

Hermione gazed at Draco, desperate for an answer; something to help her help him. But his gaze was cold; his eyes shiftless, cloudy. He was enjoying this. Perhaps the whole thing with Lavender had just been a means to bring about his own destruction, because above all that's what he craved. He didn't care about other people, or who he hurt along the way. He cared only about himself and his own satisfaction. Seeing the broken-down man before her made Hermione realize that he would never be able to love her back, because beneath that apathetic façade a heart did beat, but not in the conventional sense.

Draco Malfoy felt nothing. He was all but dead to the world. Pain could momentarily ignite what was dying within, but it just made the slow death that much more difficult to endure. She couldn't be what he wanted her to be, and it was more simply than her blood and his prejudice. He was incapable of loving her because he didn't even like himself. They could never look longingly at one another across the way, because for him merely looking his own reflection in the mirror was like slow-motion suicide. He was, for all intents and purposes, ruined, and no matter her desire, the power to fix him was beyond her.

"If no one else is going to stop this then I will!" Hermione blurted out, her resolve returning. "You should all be ashamed of yourselves."

-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --

"Lead the way then, Miss Granger," said Professor McGonagall in her characteristically stern tone. "There isn't a moment to spare."

Hermione thought it was important to acknowledge, even if only to herself, that she didn't seek out the nearest authority figure so as to get people into trouble. Or to see that they received the punishment they deserved. She did it because she was concerned. Concerned for Ron, that he might let Draco goad him into doing something he would later regret. And concerned for Draco, because he was slowly sinking into oblivion.

"So who did you say was fighting?" asked McGonagall.

"I didn't, Professor," said Hermione as she strived to keep up with McGonagall's brisk pace.

"Well it might help if you shared the identities of those responsible."

"I couldn't get a good look at their faces," Hermione lied. "There was a crowd gathered around and I couldn't see over it. So I thought it would be best if I found you."

McGonagall's lips drew into a tight line and she nodded her head. They turned the corner into the Transfiguration courtyard and both were expecting to see a crowd. What they saw instead- all they saw, in fact, for the courtyard was deserted- was Draco Malfoy lying unconscious on the floor in a heap. Big bruises shining beneath both his eyes and dried blood spotted at various points around his pale face.

"Oh, dear," said McGonagall.

Hermione wanted to blame Ron for the harrowing sight before her eyes, but she couldn't. It wasn't fair to. Draco had willingly brought it upon himself. He _wanted_ it. He knew how easy Ron was to wind up, how hot under the collar he got, and he played that to his _advantage_. What did he have planned though? Did he just want to get beaten up? Did he want to get Ron into trouble? Or was Draco trying to send a message to her? The answers to her vague questions didn't come for she was so disturbed by the images lingering in her mind. What had gone so wrong that he felt forced to encourage another to inflict upon him such physical harm? Even allowing for the fact that it was Draco Malfoy, it still defied any rational sense of reason.

"Come, Miss Granger. Help me carry Mister Malfoy to the Hospital Wing."


	12. Chapter XI: Tread Softly

Hermione reached out, touching her hand to the curved handle of the Infirmary door. The dilemma between what common sense dictated and what her heart desired was responsible for her indecision. It was silly of her stand outside, chewing the inside of her cheek when Malfoy was unconscious; he wouldn't know either way. But she wasn't afraid of being _caught_; not at all. She worried only about certain implications that would arise, and how later she would be forced to fabricate some pathetic form of justification.

It was worth the risk though, she finally decided, and she pushed open the door. Madame Pomfrey was away for lunch, and so it was as good a time as any. No record of her visit and no questions with unfathomable answers. She doubted, after the day she'd endured, she could even lie convincingly.

Although, since she and Malfoy had become better… acquainted, lying seemed to be a prevailing part of her social repertoire. It could have been because she was unable to explain the situation to others and therefore they were better off ignorant. It could also have been because Malfoy was a tremendous liar and his behaviour inevitably started to rub off on her. Or, perhaps, in order to deceive herself with any real manner of success, she first had to deceive those around her.

Uncertainty was for the time being tolerated, as the alternative reality was unlikely to mitigate her woes. There was a world of difference, though, between consciously allowing something untoward to happen, and forcing oneself to embrace ignorance. That distinction was very important. It was something she had to remind herself of constantly, just to keep from going mad. It wasn't right to step aside and permit an intruder to invade all aspects of her life. At some point, a line had to be drawn. The unfortunate thing was, she couldn't remember _where_ she drew the line.

Hermione glanced at Malfoy. The blood and the bruising had been purged from his pale face and his white-blond hair was once more immaculate. But for the bandaging wrapped around his otherwise naked torso, and the fact that he was lying in a bed in the Hospital Wing fast asleep, he looked as one would expect. Perfect.

She took a seat to his right and scooted her chair up to his bedside. His arm, the one closest to her, was dangling free of the mattress and without even thinking Hermione took hold of his wrist and hoisted it back into place. Instead of letting go, like she should have, she entwined her fingers with his.

It occurred to her then- in that peculiar moment seemingly not unlike a dream- that as far as she and Draco Malfoy were concerned, holding hands was perhaps as intimate a moment as they ever could share. That being intimacy in the truest sense. They had kissed twice before, but the first time she had resisted and the second time—well she couldn't quite figure that out. The feeling was wonderful- perfect, almost- but the circumstances would continue to haunt her.

Nothing was simple with him. Nothing was ever straightforward. It would have been complicated enough without his erratic behaviour, but he seemed desperate to make the both of them miserable. She couldn't fathom why she was at his bedside. Why she was holding his hand. Why she wanted to crawl up unto the mattress and snuggle against him. It was absurd.

Hermione was rational. Reason dictated her every action. Mostly importantly of all though, she was far too intelligent to let herself get suckered into a relationship that was doomed from the get go. Her infatuation was responsible for a series of dire consequences, and that knowledge weighed heavy on her conscience.

Instead of walking away, and that would have been both rational and reasonable, she thumbed the palm of his hand and looked up once more at his face. Though his eyes were closed, she felt the same anxiety that struck whenever they gazed at one another. It made her wonder how he felt under similar circumstances. Surely something was going on behind his ever-present apathetic façade. He may not have flaunted the fact, but he was human, after all.

An indeterminate amount of time passed before Hermione lifted his hand up and kissed his knuckles. It was her way of saying goodbye. Exactly what manner of farewell it was remained unclear, but she had to leave before he woke; before he berated her. For being a Mudblood. For being stupid enough to care about him. For wasting her time visiting him. Not a single one of those things made sense to anyone but Draco Malfoy, and yet still they were no less troubling.

Slowly she got to her feet and straightened out her robes, allowing herself only one last curious glance in his direction. Whilst her sense of logic may have been elusive recently, her curiosity was ever-present. It would be so easy to reach over him and look at his left forearm. Just to see if he had ever received the Dark Mark. After Voldemort's defeat the marks faded, but never would they disappear entirely.

Perhaps it was slightly morbid of her to want to see such a thing. And then there was the fact that she would be deliberately invading his privacy, something she was sure he coveted. It would show a distinct lack of respect above all else. But then, he never showed her anything but disrespect and disdain, so wasn't she well within her rights to take a peek? If he were in her shoes she knew exactly what course of action he would take; only, he wouldn't hesitate. And that was all the justification she required.

Hermione lifted herself onto the tips of her toes and manoeuvred one leg so that her knee came to rest by his hip. Using both the floor and the mattress for stability, she leant over him, forcing herself into a precarious position. She was able to see his forearm, but because of the way it was tucked by his side the scar she sought was hidden. So she reached over, took hold of his wrist and pulled it up and away from his body.

Suddenly she was breathless and the gasp that caught in the back of her throat made it sound like she was choking. It took her a moment to regain composure. A long moment. Then, before she really knew what she was doing, she was back on her feet and heading for the exit. But when she heard Draco Malfoy's dispassionate drawl she stopped dead in her tracks.

"Perish the thought Hermione Granger actually stay and face something so confronting. Though, in your defence, I too would have run a mile."

Hermione hesitated but eventually turned to face him. He had shifted slightly and was staring at his wrist. She met his gaze not because she wanted to, but because she couldn't bear the alternative. She realised she wasn't as far removed from denial as she first believed.

"H-How long have you been awake?" Hermione asked anxiously.

"Long enough," he replied coolly.

"I'm sorry, Draco. For invading your personal space, I mean."

"That's not what you mean. Not at all." Draco sighed. "I believe you are sorry, as you should be, but your apology has nothing to do with the invasion of my personal space. You're apologising to yourself, because you now have to bear the burden of _knowing_. Every time you look at me you will see only my scar. Not because that's what you want to see, but because it's human nature. It will act as a beacon. Reminding you over and over again that at some point in time I was so miserable, so depressed, that I tried to take my own life. How's that for tragedy? All it not lost though, because my wand is around here somewhere and I can Obliviate you if you wish. You wouldn't be the first, either."

Hermione honestly didn't know what to think. As soon as she saw the scar the implication was obvious, but having him admit to it, say it out loud, that was the real test of her nerve. In fairness she had already failed that test when she tried to run away, but she had a chance to redeem herself in his eyes.

_Her_ eyes though were clouded over, not with tears but terrifying uncertainty. She had said that he was ruined, broken and beyond repair, but the extent of that truth hadn't occurred to her until she saw the scar that memorialized the failed suicide attempt of Draco Malfoy. And instead of being troubled or feeling the disgust Draco readily expected her to feel, her heart grew fonder. And she wanted to fix him more so than ever before.

Suicide was never justifiable, but in the case of Draco Malfoy it came very close. His parents, the only two people that ever loved him, had been slain by Voldemort, and Harry Potter had denied him his revenge. He had no one, and nothing to live for. She understood him then, in that moment, but insight didn't come through empathy alone. There was something else there, beneath the surface; something that helped her see the man behind the mask.

"Do you really think I would judge you, Draco?" she asked quietly.

"No, but perhaps you should," said Draco, thumbing his scar. "Death is a frightening fate and I very nearly doomed myself. I suppose you want to know why I did it."

"No." Hermione lied. "It's not my business."

"But apparently I am, because here you are at my bedside."

Draco let his wrist fall to his side and finally gave Granger his undivided attention. She looked incredibly daft standing there by the doorway, half coming, half going, so he gave a slight nod in the direction of the recently vacated chair beside him. Unfortunately, it was so slight that it was entirely indiscernible and she starred back at him as if he hadn't just made what was by his standards an extraordinarily forthcoming gesture. And so as not to waste the forfeit of his esteemed dignity, he was compelled to nod again. This time she saw it.

"Don't you want to rest?" said Hermione.

"If I wanted you to bugger off, Granger, I would say so. Just take a seat."

Hermione stayed rooted to the spot and Draco couldn't help the roll of his eyes.

"Is it the fact that I'm only tolerable whilst unconscious that's keeping you over there?" Draco heaved a sigh that might have suggested, had Hermione not known better, that he actually _cared_ about her answer. "Or did what you just saw turn your stomach?"

As she returned to his bedside Hermione thought that perhaps she was driven only by guilt. His words, after all, did hold a degree of truth. But then she realised that her own accord had brought her to the Hospital Wing, and that was what was keeping her there. She liked to blame her feelings on some paranormal hold he had over her, but that was nonsense. Lately autonomy- in the truest sense imaginable- had been somewhat elusive; but she couldn't deny that her actions echoed desire.

Hermione sat down and knew, without having to wait for his silence to confirm such a thing, that she would have to be the one to speak first. "Are you okay, Draco?"

"You don't learn, do you, Granger?"

Hermione knew what he was going to say. What his question alluded to. And he was right. She was too compassionate for her own good. She did care about things that didn't warrant caring about, not least of all _him_. But it wasn't in her nature to simply switch-off when the circumstances called for it.

"I guess not."

"Doesn't that ever bother you? I mean, I would have thought you learnt your lesson with the House Elves. You put so much time and effort into that endeavour, bored the fuck out of anyone unfortunate enough to be around you by continually reiterating your stance on House Elf rights, and yet you couldn't see what was right in front of you. Besides Dobby, who had always been at best a sorry excuse for a servant, not a single one of them wanted to be saved. Now, for most people that would have been the ultimate deterrent; but it seemed only to spur you on.

"Now, apparently, I am your cause. And you need to realise that. Your feelings for me don't extend beyond pity. Look where we are and ask yourself _why_. Not why you're here, but why _we're_ here. It's because I just goaded your best friend into the most one sided fight since Professor Snape duelled Lockhart. Does that sound normal to you? Even remotely?"

Hermione leaned closer, her heart racing, and asked, "Why did you do it? Provoke Ron like that."

"Fuck, Granger, you're still not getting it, are you? That question is irrelevant. Are you so desperate for some form of relationship, some phony intimacy, that you would allow yourself to feel for me anything but utter disdain? I used to respect you, Granger, despite everything. But to be here now, well, that makes you almost as fucked up as I am."

Hermione stood to leave; she was trying so desperately to get through to him, to have him open up, but he couldn't go five minutes without insulting her. The fact that he might well have had a point made absolutely no difference whatsoever, because she knew that wasn't what prompted him. He was a cruel, spiteful bastard that deserved—

"Now that I've helped bring an end to Weasley and Brown, perhaps you and he can get together. I daresay you fit together perfectly. A loser who can't keep his girlfriend on a tight enough leash and a Mudblood bint more than happy to wear the harness."

By the time he finished speaking Hermione was at the door, and his voice rose ever so slightly so as to reach her ears. And when it did, when it all dawned, she turned on her heel, stormed back towards him and pointed a threatening finger in his face. She felt the tears long before they materialized.

"You're right, Malfoy. I am as fucked up as you are. But you want to know why? Because of _you_. Maybe I should have been prepared to deal with my worst enemy asking me to punch him in the face. And maybe I should have been prepared for him to kiss me. Maybe, just maybe, those two things were in the realm of my control. But you don't know what it's like. What it's like to love someone; let alone someone you cannot stand. And until you know that, until you feel it wrench your heart in two, don't you dare sit there and berate me. Just because you're inhumane, that doesn't mean the rest of us our numb to the world around us. If you opened your eyes, allowed yourself to see more than the contents of Lavender's brassiere, you might realise that. But I doubt it."

"—"

"No, Malfoy. I'm not finished," Hermione sobbed. "I need you to realise how hard it is for me to look at you and see someone who would rather jump head first off a cliff than say 'Hey, Hermione, how are you'. I thought I could pick and choose my feelings, but clearly I can't. And it kills me. It breaks my heart. I want so badly for you to kiss me. Not because you think it will mess with my mind, or even because you want a shag. But because your heart yearns, just as mine does, for that very thing. That can never happen though. And it's not even me, is it? You can't love anyone; not even yourself anymore. I wish we could go back to the way it was. Good old conceited, self-centred Draco Malfoy. I used to hate you for being so in love with yourself but now— now I want nothing more. Because it would mean we have a chance."

A veritable torrent of tears was pouring over Hermione's cheeks and she was overwhelmed by her trembling. Enduring her feelings was one thing, but vocalizing them was torturous. She almost understood why Draco hated the world around him, because after so many unwelcome realisations she was starting to feel the same. By no means was she defending his actions, merely condemning her own.

Draco reached out a hand, but she flinched at the gentle touch on her wrist and pushed him away.

"Don't touch me!" she cried. "Don't you dare touch me! You did this to me. You! And you even don't care. Why should it _bother_ you that I fall asleep at night crying my eyes out?"

Draco's jaw set, and his angular features seemed somehow more prominent. "_But_ you hate me. Granger, _you_ hate me and _I_ hate you. That's just the way things are."

"I only wish that were true."

Hermione's tears soon intensified and it was shame that made her turn and face away. He may have taken her mind, and her heart, but with her outburst she had gifted him her dignity. It was a depressing conclusion to come to, but one she was sure would help her recover long-term. Sure, she could put her feelings aside, but they would always linger.

The sound of bedsprings being released, and the rustling of sheets, wasn't enough to prepare her for what came next. Strong hands gripped her shoulders, turning her to face him, and though she tried to fight him off, punching his chest with closed fists, thumping him for all she was worth, by the time his arms wrapped around her shoulders she was powerless to resist. He rocked her head towards his firm, exposed chest and placed a lingering kiss atop her head.

For the first time ever she inhaled his scent; it was everything she imagined, and then some. A fragrant musk that smelt like nothing else. It made her breathe deeper, so as to draw more of it into her lungs. It was intoxicating; heady, and yet pure all the same. She blamed the smell for not being able to walk away, and that seemed reasonable enough to her.

Draco pulled back and so lost in the moment was she that briefly her arms protested of their own accord. Eventually though she had enough presence of mind to release her vice-like grip and withdraw from the embrace. She thought it was over, but he was looking at her. Gazing intently into her eyes like he wanted to say something, but he couldn't quite manage to do so.

He leaned in and she was so sure he was going to kiss her again that she shut her eyes in anticipation. But when his lips pressed against the crook of her neck instead she wasn't sure how to feel. He moved north and started to nibble on her lobe, and the lack of a kiss suddenly seemed not to bother her. But Draco hesitated, slowed himself down, and then whispered something so gently that even though it was spoke directly into her ear she had to strain to make it out.

"I love you."


	13. Chapter XII: Nevermore

_In the Devil's Town, the sinner is the saint._

Draco Malfoy didn't awaken that afternoon to some monumental, earth-shattering realisation. A proverbial guiding light. Such things rarely occur when you need them most. Otherwise it wouldn't be life you were living, suffering through. It would be something else entirely.

Draco did, however, awaken to something more than the numbness he'd anticipated; the numbness that consumed him as he drifted off to sleep the night before. It was something akin to desire. A desire to hold the world in the palm of his hand, look down on everyone and everything, and then ball his fist up so tight that not even a single microbe could survive the purge. That was what he wanted, more than anything else.

The absurdity behind such a desire was responsible for the returning numbness and for the rest of the day he wallowed in despair. Dark thoughts filled his head. And not once during the time spent staring at the insides of his eyelids did his desire shift from destruction to deliverance. The only consolation available was desire on a smaller scale. If he could find the most beautiful thing alive, the most glorious creature on earth, and destroy it, well maybe then he could be happy.

He had said to Saint Potter weeks ago that because he too was now an Orphan they were finally able to understand one another. But he had lied. That scar-headed idiot could never understand. It was impossible to lose that which you never really had. It was though possible to lose the will to live when the only two people you ever loved, and who ever loved you, were taken away. Harry Potter didn't know how lucky he was.

As the sun set that evening and the seventh hour spent in bed drew to a close, something suddenly clicked. His mother's voice rang thunderous in his ears and reminded him of what was. The only lesson he had ever failed to learn was once more at the forefront of his mind, and Narcissa Malfoy urged him to recognize the true depths of his emotional capacity.

Only one thing existed that could be blamed for the feeling consuming him. One elusive sensation that she had preached over and over until his Father had to step in and demand she give the poor boy a break. And if she had been alive in that moment he would have found her and shared the truth. That after so many years it was finally his.

_Love._

It didn't change him, because he supposed it had always been there somewhere, inside of him. All it did was help him realise that it was the unconditional love of his mother and father that gave him will and purpose. And it was the now apparent lack of that very thing which sparked his unrelenting misery.

It was through that knowledge that he began to understand all was not truly lost. There existed another who he loved and who loved him in return. She could make him feel whole again. She could patch up his wounds and deliver him from evil. She could be exactly what he needed; and in return he could be what she had always wanted him to be.

So he owled Pansy. The bird had barely left his windowsill when suddenly she was at his bedroom door, tears lighting her eyes. His stomach lurched, a warning from within, but he persevered and beckoned her over. She rushed into his arms and lost herself in the uninhibited embrace.

"Oh, Draco!" she sobbed. "I am so glad you wrote me. Blaise told me what happened and I wanted to come to you. Really I did. But he said you would send me away. And I couldn't stand the idea of upsetting you further."

Draco said nothing, but he chewed the inside of his cheek. His stomach lurched once more. What the fuck was wrong with him? A perfectly attractive young lady was sitting in his lap and he felt like he was about to throw up. She was trailing kisses along his jaw line and he felt only like cringing. He forced it all aside, growled into her ear, lifted her up off his lap and threw her onto the bed.

"Take off your clothes, Pansy."

She looked up at him through wide eyes before smiling and complying with his request. But even as her perfect breasts sprang free of their confinement, he couldn't feel a thing. Mentally and physically he felt himself drifting slowly from the room, from the moment in time. To where he wasn't sure, but something inside of him didn't want this. Didn't want her.

A voice screamed inside his head that he didn't love this girl.

That couldn't be. If he didn't love her, then who did he love? Because she was the answer to all his questions. And if those answers turned out to be anything but true, then he would find himself back at square one. Loveless, emotionless; dead to the world. If he couldn't make her his, feel for her how his Father felt for his Mother, then the one thing keeping him alive would amount to little more than a hollow epiphany. And above all else, that frightened him.

"Come, Draco," she cooed, as her thumbs slipped inside the waistband of her knickers. "This bed is awful lonely without you."

Draco, his knees trembling, approached, and his fingers began to fumble against the buttons of his shirt. If Pansy detected his unease, she made no sign of acknowledgement. She merely stretched out on the bed, propped her chin up in the palm of her hand and smiled.

After struggling with his trousers and his boxer shorts, Draco finally settled beside her. He didn't dare look down, because he knew what was happening. His mind wasn't merely protesting, it was forcing it's will upon him physically. His breath was suddenly very shallow.

"I've missed you so much, handsome," Pansy whispered gleefully. "And I've missed your body, too."

Her hand ran down over his shoulder, across his torso and nestled just beneath his abdomen. She met his gaze as slowly she took hold of him and tried to stroke him to arousal.

"Draco—is everything okay?"

Draco couldn't decide which was more humiliating. The fact that his dick was flaccid despite the gorgeous, naked girl beside him, or the question she just had to ask. He tried to manage his breathing but suddenly had trouble drawing any breath at all into his lungs. He looked away, over towards the window at the opposite end of the room, and closed his eyes.

"I'm fine. Try using your mouth."

She complied, and for a second he thought it might work. That was until he realised the tingling wasn't his erection, but her tongue. She stayed down there for a good five minutes, bobbing up and down on his flaccid penis, before he even bothered to open his eyes and look at her. She was staring.

"Please, fucking, please," he whispered breathlessly. "Wake up."

"Draco, its okay," said Pansy, freeing him from her mouth and squeezing his thigh. "We don't have to have sex."

Pansy sat up and positioned herself so they were at eyelevel with one another. She could see his vacant expression and hear his abnormal breathing pattern, but she couldn't think of anything else to say. He was already aggravated and she dreaded the inevitable moment in which he turned his wrath upon her.

Without prior warning, Draco shoved her hard onto the mattress and pressed himself against her. One hand clutched her upper arm, whilst the other dug into her hip, supporting him. He was going to do whatever was needed to consummate their love. He was going to force himself to embrace the experience and then move on with the rest of his life.

"Draco—"

"Shhh, don't talk," he breathed. "I _really_ need you to be quiet."

It was ironic, really. To prove to himself that he loved the girl he was trying to force himself to have sex with her. Even in that moment of teary, sweat-drenched desperation, when all he could think about was how pathetic he had become, he managed to appreciate just how far he was from what Narcissa Malfoy once envisioned for her only son.

"I love you, Draco."

After that it was all too much. Draco rolled away, off the bed and onto the floor. His back collided with the wooden boards below but he didn't feel it. Not really. He was momentarily lost, his mind wandering elsewhere, and only when he heard her voice did he find his feet.

"Are you okay?" she asked.

"Go," he said coldly, without even the briefest pause.

"W-What?"

"You heard me. Take your clothes and get out. I need to be alone."

Before she had a chance to protest her sudden dismissal, he had hold of her forearm and was shoving her into the hallway. He didn't even spare a glance as he piled her clothes up into his arms and threw them at her feet. After slamming his bedroom door shut he was finally where he wanted to be: alone.

Buried beneath a duvet, a sea of sheets and a mountain of pillows, Draco withdrew into the foetal position, his knees clutched tight to his chest, and cried like a helpless baby. The trouble was, his tears were due to his enormous self-loathing, and he loathed himself more so for the tears. As such, his distress lasted long into the night.

-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --

When finally he stopped crying, it wasn't because his misery had altogether subsided. It was simply because he no longer had the energy to express any emotion. So he sat and stared at the far wall, ignoring the food placed by house elves at the end of his bed, day after day after day. He lost himself once more in dark thoughts.

There was so much sickness in the world. So much sin. And Draco had the choice between assuming his former mantle and participating in the gradual corrosion of decent society, or changing, helping, and therefore becoming something he was never meant to be. Either alternative seemed horrendous. Why couldn't a person merely exist?

Because the world expected more of you, that's why. And all manner of people looked to even the weakest of individuals for _something_ at some point in time. It was inevitable. Coveting peace, quiet and solitude, well that didn't factor into it, unfortunately. It only made the issue at hand more so exasperating.

It wasn't long before a shimmer caught his eye. The setting sun cast itself across the silver of a blunt butter knife left behind by one of the house elves. A simple incantation and it could quite easily cut through flesh, or even bone, bringing about a glorious culmination of seventeen miserable years spent wallowing in the shadow of a far greater man. With the shadow now gone, he had no means of defence. And he hadn't the capacity to do anything but cower.

It wasn't an issue to be taken lightly, however, even in the deepest throes of melancholy. He considered briefly the why and the why not when all of a sudden he had the knife in his white-knuckle grasp, the silver cold beneath his fingertips. More than mere faces flashed before his eyes and the sight was blinding. The sounds deafening. He felt the overwhelming weight of that moment in time: perfectly tragic, as all finales should be.

Fear took over. Somehow, in that moment, the last of his, he worried more about his own desire to amend what was yet to pass than he did his own life, which soon would be fading from the cold grey of his eyes; eyes that he hoped would remain impassive until the bitter end. A quick incantation upon the blade and fate rested in the palm of his hand.

Silver into flesh, and then: nothing.

Draco Malfoy was nevermore.

-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --

Only, it didn't work out quite like that. Fate was a fickle mistress.

When his eyes blinked, fluttered open, he was greeted not by the sight angels ought to see; nor some heavenly paradise free of mortality. There were no harps to great him or songbirds to stir him free of his earthly slumber. There was merely the enveloping bleakness they affectionately referred to as reality. And never in all his days had its presence had quite such a profound effect on him.

For he wasn't grateful for the second chance, and his predicament was anything but a miracle.

Draco realised where he was, and he had long since loathed St. Mungo's. The irony was that finally he had a legitimate reason for finding himself there; and it wasn't specifically the wound on the inside of his wrist- a wound he would later tell the Healers to let be so that it might form into a scar, because such reminders were necessary in a seeming society that longed always to _forget_. The reason was that all of a sudden he felt gravely ill; worse, in fact, than in the moment before he drove the tip of that blade into his still beating pulse and twisted and turned until all manner of darkness fogged his mind and he lost consciousness. Because though he had believed there was nothing in the world worse than finding you had arrived at the point in time in which your only option was to take your own life, he had been wrong. Very wrong indeed.

What ailed him made that seem by comparison rather trivial, for Lucius Malfoy had instilled in his only son an impassioned intolerance for failure. And even six feet under his Father would tut and sigh, because Draco had found a new way to bring shame upon him. He couldn't even exceed in ridding himself of his own wretched life.

He never would be able to remember which he felt first: the sting of tears, smouldering in the corners of his eyes, or the repellent trickle at the back of his throat that signalled his sickness was about to materialise.

-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --

Bad news had a way of recurring. As if the situation wasn't dreadful enough, he now had to _live_ with the knowledge that he owed his redundant life to the House Elf that found him and brought him to St. Mungo's. If the Healers had given him any solids in those past twenty-four hours he might have once again decorated his bed sheets in bile. As it stood, he had nothing to provoke the internal purge.

Various people visited him for the next few days. They hadn't the nerve to say so, but he was almost certain he was on unofficial suicide watch. If he weren't so utterly depressed he might even have been amused. He wasn't sure why, exactly, although surely they knew who he was. The death of his parents had taken a great deal of covering up and so the fact that they, and Draco too, weren't currently rotting away in Azkaban must have come as something of an unpleasant surprise to everyone unfortunate enough to be watching over him.

Then there was the futility behind preventing someone from taking their own life. True, he had failed once, but if decided to try again then they were unlikely to be able to impede him. He supposed it was their job to do so and as _professionals _they couldn't let either their emotions or common sense dictate otherwise.

About a week after he first awoke, though his concept of time was skewed and it could easily have been longer, he received a visitor. But the woman seated at his bedside wasn't a Healer. She wasn't there to check his vitals. The lanky, mousy, middle-aged woman- who seemed attractive at the time only due to the circumstances- had a different agenda altogether. It was her job to delve deep; to discover what it was that made Draco Malfoy tick. She had to find out exactly why he tried to take his own life without ever directly asking such a question.

If indeed he was capable of such a rudimentary emotion, he might perhaps have pitied her.

"So, Mr. Malfoy, tell me—"

"Please," he interrupted her greeting. "Call me Cubert."

It was apparently well within their rights to treat him, mentally and physically, as they saw fit. Perhaps he had given up his own rights when he shoved that blade point first into his wrist. He could see the logic behind such a thing. But by no stretch of the imagination did that mean he was required to cooperate. In fact, if they wanted to treat him like a mad man, then it was only courteous to play the part to the best of his ability.

"Uh—Cubert?"

Draco smirked. "Don't you see? That's why I did it. I was sick of my life. Boring old Draco Malfoy and his boring old fortune. I needed change. A hobgoblin that lives in my Father's old liquor cabinet told me that if I killed myself I could come back as Cubert. And he promised me, crossed his goblin heart, that there wasn't a man or woman alive that didn't love Cubert. And after all, that's what each and every one of us wants, isn't it? To be loved. You tell me, you're the professional."

Almost a month passed before Draco convinced the woman, Wendy Ball was her name, that she had restored him to his former glory. Killing Cubert was easy, because he existed only in her mind, but there was a process behind such things. The Muggles didn't build Rome in a day, and a grand deception took time to properly conceive and then execute. To the woman's credit, she didn't swallow it straight away.

Less than a week later (she had started visiting him daily) he asked the big question. The question which formed the basis for every word they shared. That inspired the insincere tears shed over her bony shoulder. That gradually fitted the fantasy in her mind with the reality in his by way of a series of not so subtle revelations. Through two pairs of eyes the story was seen and each formed a jigsaw. Only hers was ten thousand pieces, most of which were cloudy sky; his, on the other hand, was barely fifty and the picture was of a clown; a clown laughing a hollow sort of laugh that choked to death anyone unfortunate enough to yield the disturbing sound.

"Do you trust me?"

And when she nodded, smiled and then held his hand, looking at him in much the same way you would expect of a woman paid a mercenaries wage to talk people off the proverbial edge, he knew he'd succeeded. The lack of any real effort applied during their time together almost disappointed him. Weeks spent staring at the same four walls, walls that were covered in lumpy white paint and not much else, left him with a strong desire to be suitably challenged. Suffice to say, lanky Wendy Ball was about as challenging as bread and butter.

With trust came favours, and the favour he had in mind from the very beginning would see his nightmare end. Mere moments after she placed his confiscated wand in his hand, she was the victim of a rather hasty, but still flawlessly executed, memory charm. He left her alone in his room, a blank look on her face as she scrutinised a month's worth of nonsensical notes concerning a Cubert, a Draco and a Unicorn that liked to be fed pumpkin rind only in the middle of spring.

By the time Draco returned home to the Manor he had already accomplished a great deal. The hard copy of his medical file, concerning that which he wanted not a soul to concern themselves with, had been destroyed. Several people he remembered visiting him during his tenure at St. Mungo's also had their memories charmed. The head of the ward, a Healer Johnson, was happy enough to take a bribe and be on his merry way. The price he demanded was sizeable, to say the least, but it meant he would be forced to answer any and all questions, and Draco could get off scot-free. And it wasn't as if he couldn't afford it, anyway.

The house elf responsible for _saving _his lifewas suitably ashamed after a brief reprimand and order was once more restored to the hallowed halls of Malfoy Manor. Now it was _his _Kingdom and he was the Lord. Scant consolation, but the hideous scar on his wrist and a head full of errant thoughts put things into perspective. But they also made him wonder _why_. Why he'd been saved.

And he was thinking in the broadest sense imaginable. He didn't wonder why that pathetic excuse for a house elf had taken him to St. Mungo's. Not only was the answer obvious, but it was immaterial. If fate existed, and he wasn't quite sure it did, for what reason had it chose to spare his life? What impact upon the world at large did he have to offer besides marrying the first tarted-up, Pureblood trollop to cross his path and producing with her an heir to the Malfoy legacy. And strange if that were indeed his destiny, for he imagined fate to be anything but enamoured with his infamous kin.

So what purpose was he supposed to aspire to? He had few real friends. The only family of his left alive had long since had their names scorched from the family tree. And the idea of giving any portion of his considerable wealth to charity made him feel physically ill.

If he chose to go back to Hogwarts for his Seventh year, he was as yet undecided, then he could get all his meaningless qualifications and socialise with a bunch of people around whom he felt his skin crawl. Then, depending on how he did, he could get a job. The very idea of it was laughable though when he could merely put his feet up and let his father's business, and its many offshoot ventures, accumulate excess wealth in his name until finally he snuffed it. And yes, he could have endeavoured into his own career anyway, but frankly labour (of any kind) repulsed him.

-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --

It was the weekend following his unsanctioned release from St. Mungo's that he found an answer. It wasn't monumental by any means; in fact, had he not been desperate he would have seen it as entirely trivial. But he found the way his eyes watered longingly whenever he spotted a knife or any manner of sharp object to be rather infuriating, and so the letter Edward Frost passed to him as he slept long ago on that fateful day was not the nuisance worth forgetting he had first thought it to be. In his most desperate hour, it was a godsend.

Draco hurried along the central corridor, took a left at the statue of his great-grandfather and uttered the password that allowed him access into his private wing of the Manor. When he reached his room he approached his bureau slowly, as if suddenly the prospect of significance terrified him. A trepid hand reached into the middle draw, riffled around for a moment or two and then pulled free, letter in hand. He read it for only the second time.

_Cassandra,_

_I write you this letter because it's all I have left to give. Though you are far away, isolated from those you love, I know that someway, somehow, this, my last testament to the world, will reach you._

_I travel with a young boy, and he finds himself in my debt. This letter will come to you by his hand, for soon, I fear, I will be dead. I ask only that you do not mourn me, for in your sorrow awaits only damnation. Instead, cling to your memories; in this world we live they are the only thing on which we can rely._

_I will not be there to see the world end; the fact you will makes my heart ache. Cassandra I love you, and I needed to tell you so one last time._

_Eternally yours,_

_Edward_

Sentimental nonsense, if he was being entirely honest, but he would have delivered a crayon drawing of Dumbledore to the girl as long as it meant something to her. And if this Cassandra was anything like the late Edward Frost then he had a very good feeling that it might just make her day. Of course, that wouldn't have bothered him in the slightest, the happiness of another, but for the fact that in her smile he would perhaps find value in his own life. The kindness in such a deed failed to really register with Draco.

-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --

It didn't take long to find her. During the War Cassandra had moved to Australia to escape the brunt of the conflict, and for whatever she decided to stay there once _peace_ had been restored to the British Isles. Any actual specific information about Cassandra was scarce, he supposed because her life and times were rather inconsequential to anyone but Edward Frost. He didn't like meeting with people when utterly ignorant of everything about them but their name and address; it didn't sit well with him. How could one be expected to control such a situation?

His Father had always taught him that to manipulate was to have power and that to have power was to have _everything_. Since he had only memorized maxims to go by, he chose to give himself unconditionally to the wisdom contained within. Admittedly no manner of extensive analysing could draw from his parent's guidance anything that would, even under the direst of circumstances, lead directly or indirectly to suicide, but it was never too late to see sense.

It was apparent from the very beginning just how aware the shady merchant was of his corner on the global Portkey market. Not being a particularly patient man, Draco handed over the small fortune required and ******Apparated** home from Knockturn Alley. Within the hour, he was in Australia.

-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --

"Can I help you, young man?" said the old, bearded Muggle who answered the front door. "You don't look like you're from around here."

Tracking Cassandra down had been the easy part. Withstanding the sweltering heat, on the other hand, was beyond him. By the time he got his act together and cast a cooling charm, it was too late. He had a spitting headache, sun stroke, and his once pale skin had come up in revolting pink splotches, sun burn. Living in England his entire life, and never venturing further afield than France on his travels, meant he was unaccustomed to such an inhospitable environment. And then he had to content with the stupid accents of the native folk. He couldn't imagine sounding so ghastly.

"Yes, perhaps you can," Draco replied stoically. "I'm looking for someone named Cassandra. I was told she lives here."

The man smiled and ushered Draco inside with a forthcoming hand on his shoulder. "Wait here one moment, I'll go and fetch her."

Draco didn't know much about Muggles or their silly little customs, but it didn't take a genius to figure where he was and to whom he'd just spoke. The Muggle was a holy man, his distinctive collar gave that much away, and the building into which he'd just entered was a place of worship. Why a Witch chose to live out the rest of her life in an Australian church with Muggles was frankly beyond his immediate comprehension; but then he was far from home. Out of his depth and out of his realm. Nothing could be taken for granted around these people, even if they did harbour amongst them a magical being. As such he decided he would give the girl her letter, say something consoling in regards to Edward and then piss off.

"Hello?"

The voice from the other end of the hallway was somewhat tentative, ready to confront the inevitable and yet extraordinarily frightened all the same. Draco hadn't the foggiest how to deal with bereavement. Well, that wasn't entirely true. He dealt with his with own. But no matter his indifference to this woman, he thought it prudent to preach _do as say, not as I do_ to her. Mentioning his encounter with the pointed end of a kitchen knife wasn't likely to go down well.

Then again, perhaps it was best if he withheld his advice altogether. Hypocrisy wasn't part of his agenda.

"Cassandra?" he asked.

"Yes." She nodded. "Are you—why are you here?"

Draco sighed and closed the distance between them, deciding almost immediately that some sort of icebreaker was needed before he could hand over the letter and retreat. He thought of himself under similar circumstances, and he thought about the letter his Godfather had sent him the day his parents died. Concise, expressionless, formal even; the letter could quite easily have come from Lord Voldemort himself. Only, as hollow as the note seemed, Draco still appreciated it immensely. Because at the end of the day, it was better than nothing.

"I _was_ a friend of Edward's."

_Was_. Past tense. Her bottom lip began to tremble. "Oh.'"

So much for that icebreaker.

Cassandra looked like she was about to say something, her lips parted but only to inhale air. She gestured in the direction of a nearby bench and forced a pained smile. The funny thing was, people called him a coward. As far as he was concerned, it took a great deal of courage not to toss the letter at her feet, turn quickly on his heel and bolt out of the room. Instead, he took a seat beside her and forced a smile of his own.

"How did it happen?" she mumbled after scarcely a moments respite. "Or do I not want to know?"

Draco bit down on his tongue as he considered her question. What answer could he possibly give that wouldn't make news of her beloved's passing that much more difficult to swallow. Forget purpose, fate and all that rubbish; he should have stayed at home.

"He died a hero's death," Draco lied. Well, _technically_ it was a lie, although of course there was a distinct possibility that Edward Frost had died as honourable a death as was possible for a two-faced, back-stabbing, double-agent playing two sides against one another. Perhaps he was a little bitter. Truthfully, all Draco knew of Edward's death was the corpse he glanced as he fought his way through Voldemort's army on that fateful day. "Brave until the very end."

The corners of her lips twitched ever so slightly, but before the genuine smile could materialise it faltered. She remembered why she was talking to him in the first place. "Thank you," she said courteously, and then she stood to leave, assuming he'd said his piece.

"Wait."

Her head whipped back around to face him and her eyes were alight with optimism. For the briefest of moments she was naive enough to _believe_. Perhaps there was a clerical error on his behalf that he intended immediately to rectify; perhaps it was part of a cruel practical joke the members of the Order of the Phoenix were playing. Perhaps she'd heard him wrong. Perhaps _anything_ that meant Edward was still alive.

Naivety wasn't, in this case at least, synonymous with ignorance, and so before Draco had a chance to say anything the brightness left her eyes and her expression was dull once more. _Life was wretched_; he really ought to remember that.

"I travelled with him, not long before his death, and he wanted me to give you this."

Draco reached inside his robes and pulled free the letter (which he was careful to reseal after reading). Her smile said it all: as if some vague, barely there part of Edward would live on through his letter.

Perhaps though, given the circumstances, that would always be _enough_.


	14. Chapter XIII: Milk

There was something unbelievably therapeutic about falling asleep in Draco Malfoy's arms; the words, his words, _I love you_, still resonating in her ears. Maybe it was a sign of weakness to lay down beside him after everything he'd put her through, but for once she couldn't say no to what her heart desired most. And if indeed she wanted to fix him, then actual intimacy could be seen as the first step towards opening him up to the world he hated so.

Only, it was foolishness and not weakness that troubled her as she awoke, and his apparent absence was the cause. The how, the why and the when didn't even occur to her as she frowned down at the empty, slept-in spot beside her on the bed. His bed. If she had been at a loss before, and it certainly felt that way, then now she was nothing if not ignorant. The harder she tried to understand, the more distant he grew.

How could anyone proclaim their love for another and then sneak off before the assertion had a chance to sink in? She knew exactly how. Draco Malfoy was born without a spine; either that, or over time he'd been overcome by cowardice, until finally he hadn't the courage needed to do anything other than belittle, berate and bully. He wasn't a man; he was barely even a snake.

It was entirely his fault and yet he chose not to stick around and face the consequences. Hermione had been happy admiring his beauty from afar for years, safe in the knowledge that nothing even remotely human lurked beneath his handsome facade. She could ignore the slight crush, the school girl infatuation, for every muttered _Mudblood _helped her realise that beauty was but skin deep. Only when he revealed shattered shards of his broken soul to her, paraded the broken pieces before her admittedly willing eyes, had her feelings grown more so complicated.

Now dismissal wasn't an option. Draco had imprinted himself on her heart and her soul. Yes, she had been ready to give up, on more than one occasion, but every time she got close to doing so he would reveal another piece of the intricate puzzle and her heart would yearn to see him whole again. And he'd said he loved her; honestly, she loved him too.

Only when Draco Malfoy happened to be the object of your affections was _more_ required. She should have realised, right away, that those three beautiful words, glorious as they were, just wouldn't be enough. Not for him; because his love wasn't tangible. It may have been there one moment, flourishing, but it was gone the next. She didn't exactly know why and feared it was something she would never quite comprehend.

Hermione swung her legs over the edge of the bed- _his_ side of the bed- and heaved a sigh. The spot was still warm and his scent lingered. Before she could lose herself in that wondrous moment in time, her bleary eyes spotted something standing upright on the bedside table. A folded note, on the front of which was her name scribbled in his familiar scrawl. She knew even as she reached for it that nothing good would come from what was inside.

_Granger_

_I didn't mean what I said. I just couldn't stand your blubbering. Steer clear if you know what's good for you._

_Malfoy_

Perhaps the note was intended to upset her. Perhaps not. In Hermione's eyes, it served only to reinforce what his hasty exit helped her realise. Despite his very real feelings for her, and hers for him, he was at heart a coward. She had always been aware of such a thing- to some extent, at least- but the true depths of his cowardice were staggering. Had she not witnessed it first hand, she might have had trouble believing any one person could be so spineless.

And yet, the truly harrowing thing was, she loved him more so for his faults, of which there were many, than his strengths, which of late had been non-existent. He was broken, battered, on the brink of oblivion. But he was hers, and hers alone, to fix. And even if it took her a lifetime, she would put him back together again.

-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --

The Great Hall was a veritable hive of activity, but if any man was an island, it was Draco Malfoy. Surrounded by those whose presence he could just about endure, Draco made a point of looking at each of them like they were beneath him, daring them to say or act otherwise. Blaise Zabini was to his left; Pansy Parkinson to his right; Theodore Nott beside her; and Vincent Crabbe and Gregory Goyle across from them. Daphne and Astoria Greengrass sat further up the table, but well within glaring distance.

It amused him. The contrast between his _friends_ and the _Mudblood_ with whom he'd spent the last hour sleeping. He didn't dare imagine their reactions if the truth were to be revealed, and likewise Granger might not be overly cheerful if she were privy to their conversation.

"Is it true, Draco?"

"Is what true, Goyle?"

"That you shagged Lavender Brown as a dare?" Goyle's faced seemed to be affixed with a perpetual grin.

"I shagged her, sure, but it wasn't a dare. I just wanted to show her what a real man is like between the sheets."

Pansy and Blaise shared a look of scepticism, but remained silent. Their disapproval of Draco's recent _exploits_ notwithstanding, they weren't about to give their housemates just cause to ostracize him.

"But," Crabbe interjected. "Was it worth it? I mean, Weasley beat the shit out of you, didn't he?"

Draco eyed Crabbe for a moment, his thin lips eventually curling into a smirk. "Well, he punches like a girl, so it was a small price to pay."

Astoria Greengrass, who'd had something of a crush on Draco ever since they first met, cleared her throat before speaking. "A friend of mine in Ravenclaw who was there when it happened said you refused to fight back. And that you egged him on."

Draco sighed. "Yes, well, your friend sounds like the sort of bint who lies just to get attention. I expected better of you, Astoria."

Astoria harrumphed, and then went back to her scrambled eggs, sufficiently reprimanded.

"There must be _some _truth to it though, Draco. Seldom are rumours entirely untrue," said Nott, leaning across Pansy to meet Draco's gaze.

"Shut up, Nott," said Pansy, pushing him back down into his seat. "What is with this obsession of yours for gossip? How old are you?"

"Older than you," Nott huffed.

"Shame you don't act it," Blaise sneered.

Draco tuned the tedious argument out and glanced curiously over at the Gryffindor table. Weaselbee and Potter were busy shovelling food into their gobs, but _she_ was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps she was still in the Hospital Wing, sobbing her big, brown, beautiful eyes out. He dearly hoped so. He only bemoaned the fact that he wouldn't be around to witness firsthand the crestfallen look on her pretty little Mudblood face.

The letter was perhaps a touch harsh, but it was vital he help her understand that which was right in front of her. It could never be. No matter how much they wanted it, no matter how hard they tried, the truth was it would only ever end in heartache. What was the point in such a futile endeavour? Draco would much rather ignore the feeling than pursue it knowing full well it could only ever end in tears.

It had been an easy decision, if he was being honest. Writing the letter and cutting her loose wasn't half as difficult as he first thought. What was difficult, however, was deciding whether or not he should try and shag her first. She was undoubtedly a prude and obviously not in it for the sex, but he had an inkling that were he to reciprocate the feelings then she could be his; physically speaking, at least.

He worried that many a cold shower would be spent lamenting not having deflowered the prissy little Mudblood.

Sex always complicated things though. His bedpost didn't have half as many notches as the Hogwarts populace seemed to believe, and yet still he was burdened with the clingy behaviour of those he had bedded, long after he discarded them. And Granger, likely being a Virgin, would be more so enamoured afterwards. She was the sort of girl that didn't want sex; she didn't want a shag or a fuck. She wanted you to _make love_ to her.

To get her in the mood you would likely need hundreds of scented candles littered around the room, and sheets of colourful, flowing transparent fabric hung strategically in every possible line of sight; you would be expected to quote poetry as you entered her for the first time. Then, afterwards, you would be required to stay awake and talk about classical music until the sun came up, at which point the two of you would settle on the veranda and bask in nature's glow.

He felt sick just thinking about Granger's pitiful idealism.

The irony was, though, that someone so idealistic could be so infatuated with him of all people. Potter, he could understand. The Boy Who Lived and all that crap. Cedric Diggory (before he snuffed it) he could also understand. And at a stretch he could even see an idealistic infatuation with Zabini: the mysterious, quiet Slytherin that silly little girls longed to rescue from the creeping dark.

But him? Draco Malfoy? What the fuck was wrong with Hermione Granger? Sure, he was handsome, intelligent enough, and incredibly witty, but girls like her didn't fall for guys like him. He was cruel, especially to her; he was a bigot, unashamedly so; and he had fought for Lord Voldemort until the very last minute, when, sensing the outcome, he chose to defect, like a complete and utter coward.

Maybe he was missing something, but what was there to love? What did she see in him?

The only possible explanation he could come to was that desire of hers to rescue all manner of things, regardless of whether or not they wanted to be rescued. House Elves being the prime example. He supposed he did _need_ rescuing, but he certainly didn't want such a thing. And his feelings for her, unwelcome as they were, made the prospect of her help and her pity more so unappealing. She would never quite see that, though; he supposed it was part of her _charm_.

"Oi, oi," Nott's grating voice rang harshly in his ears. "Mudblood at twelve o'clock. Looks like she's heading this way."

Draco's wide-eyes found Hermione Granger, and she was indeed heading towards the Slytherin table. A few people close by, from various different houses, noticed this and began to pay close attention. Why was the most famous Muggleborn at Hogwarts heading _there_ of all places. Did she have a death wish?

Even though the War was over and attitudes on _Blood Purity_ had cooled somewhat, a significant amount of Witches and Wizards were only begrudgingly tolerant of anyone and anything they considered impure. The Slytherins, especially the older students, helped define the residual prejudice.

Draco looked around just in time to see the apprehensive faces of Blaise and Pansy, equally perplexed. Draco, to his credit, acted as if nothing untoward was about to occur. He reached across the table, grabbed a nearby jug of milk by the handle, and poured himself a glass.

As he took a long, fulfilling gulp he noticed all eyes were on him, meaning only one thing. Hermione Granger was stood behind him, her little hands likely on her hips, her naturally tapered eyebrows drawn together in a furious, and yet altogether adorable, furrow. Draco flashed his trademark smirk, took another gulp of milk, and turned to face her.

"If it isn't my favourite Mudblood," he said smoothly, eyeing her. "Care for a glass of milk? It's ever so refreshing."

It was funny just how spot on he had been whilst calculating her stance. He felt almost like giving himself a proud pat on the back. But then she had always been so easy to read.

Granger began to nod her head from side to side, and perhaps she was in a state of disbelief. Though it could have been irritation. Either way, his Mudblood was usually in a much better mood.

"Draco, maybe we should go," said Blaise anxiously.

"Whatever for?" Draco smirked. "Granger just got here."

"Piss off, Mudblood," Nott sneered. "You're not welcome here."

At this Draco burst out laughing and soon he was holding his sides, his breath rather short. "Oh, Nott, you do crack me up. Do you have anything to say in response, Granger? I daresay usually you can't keep your trap shut."

Everyone at the Slytherin table, as well as the gathered crowd, starred at Draco Malfoy incredulously. Polyjuice Potion? It had to be. Either that or he'd lost his mind.

Even more surprising than Draco's behaviour, and what ultimately distracted everyone from that, was the fact that Pansy rose out of her seat and approached Granger. The Gryffindor girl was tight lipped, narrow eyed, but she turned to Pansy, and there wasn't quite the same fire in her eyes.

"Granger, go," said Pansy. "You don't want to do this."

"Do what?!" an impatient Hufflepuff fifth year called out from amongst the gathered crowd.

Granger opened her mouth to speak, but Pansy nodded her head fervently before she had a chance and her mouth soon closed. "I know what its like," Pansy continued. "Trust me when I say that. You need to go."

"But—"

"Go."

And though only a very select few could follow the cryptic words, it seemed to make sense to them both. Granger nodded her appreciation, looked once more at Draco and then turned to leave. His _friends_ edged in close, questions on all their lips, but Draco didn't give them the chance. He got up off his seat, climbed onto the table and stood tall amongst the crowd. Glass of milk still in hand, he called out after Granger's retreating form.

"I must say, Granger, that despite looking like a beaver from the front, you've actually got a pretty decent arse on you. Well, for a Mudblood, at least."

"Draco, sh—" Pansy started to say, but Draco interrupted.

"Quiet, Pansy. This doesn't concern you. You'd do well to keep your pug-like nose out of it."

The gathered crowd sucked in a collective breath, together desperate to see what would happen next. Granger turned back towards Draco, frowning deeply, and met his gaze once more. He looked ready to say something, perhaps continue his verbal assault, when all of a sudden something hard struck him square in the groin and he fell gracelessly to his knees, the glass of milk he was holding shattering on the table beside him, the contents drenching him from head to toe.

As shocking as the exchange between Granger and Malfoy had been, no one watching would ever have imagined that Pansy Parkinson would punch the one man she adored in the most private of places. After a few silent moments they all scurried back to their respective places, discussing at length the bizarre occurrences.

Draco rolled off the table, away from the shards of glass, and onto the floor. He found his feet, staggering into position, and wiped the milk from his eyes. He was ready to garrotte the first person who approached him and said _there's no point crying over spilt milk_.

He turned and found himself starring into those big, brown, beautiful eyes which seemed to glimmer with unshed tears. Granger gave a crooked smile, grabbed hold of his wrist and placed a note in the palm of his hand. Then she was gone.

Before he could fold open the note he felt a hand on his shoulder and glanced at Blaise out the corner of his eye. "One day, mate," Blaise began. "I'm going to get you the best head doctor money can buy. God knows, you need it."

Blaise walked away chuckling to himself, but Draco was far too consumed with the contents of the note to give his friend's quip more than a moment's consideration. His long, slender fingers pulled the parchment apart at the seam and his eyes devoured Granger's neat, distinctive handwriting.

_Draco_

_I dare do all that may become a man; who dares do more is none._

_I love you._

_Hermione_


	15. Chapter XIV: We Used to Be Friends

Draco stalked the dungeon corridor, Zabini at his heel and Parkinson a few short strides ahead. The girl was trying in vain to get far enough away so that finally she could breathe easy, but even at a brisk pace she was going nowhere fast. It took very little effort for either of the boys to keep up with her and soon she was cornered.

"That was not a very nice thing you did back there," said Draco steadily. "Humiliating me like that in front of the entire school."

Pansy, who was now sandwiched between Draco and the hard stone wall, looked defiantly up at him. "You deserved it."

"Is that so?" asked Draco, smirking.

Pansy knew that he wasn't holding his fury in check for her sake. In fact, he wasn't holding his fury in check at all. With Draco it was all about the calm before the storm. He had this uncanny ability to momentarily withhold his emotions, just so that the eventual outburst seemed more so _momentous_. He would lull you into a false sense of security and then pull the proverbial rug from beneath your feet when you least expected it.

Over time though, she had learnt to always expect it, no matter his mood. It wasn't necessarily his transparency, but more a familiarity that had grown between them over the years. Sadly this didn't deter him, nor did it lessen her acute unease.

"Tell me, Pansy, since when did you and that _filthy Mudblood _become such good pals? I turn my back and all of a sudden hell has frozen over."

Pansy lifted her hands and pushed at Draco's chest, but he didn't budge. He didn't even acknowledge her attempt to escape. He was staring at her, concentrating on her gaze and she found herself forced to look away, such was the unnerving intensity within the cold grey of his eyes.

"We're not _pals_," Pansy mumbled. "But I felt sorry for her. No one, not even a Mudblood like her, deserves what I knew you were about to do."

Draco actually had the audacity to laugh as he brushed the back of his hand over her cheek. "What's this? My _darling_ Pansy seems to have developed a conscience. What do you think, Blaise? Is she going soft on us?"

Blaise didn't answer, and instead continued to stare anxiously at the pair, never quite sure where to let his stare linger. He was in a precarious position, but was waiting for something justifiable before he stepped in.

"Well?" Draco asked after a moment.

"I don't know, mate."

"I asked you a fucking question, Blaise!" Draco bellowed, the calm finally gone as the storm revealed itself. "Don't stand there like a Hufflepuff, all simpering and useless. Give me an answer."

"Mate—"

"You're as pathetic as she is," Draco sneered, still glaring at Pansy. "Why don't you piss off?"

"Why don't you let Pansy go first?"

At this Draco did turn to face Blaise, a furtive smirk curling his lips. "It's becoming so clear to me now; what the two of you are. A Mudblood lover and Prince bloody Charming. The War ends and all of a sudden it's okay to behave like a spineless cunt. Both of you, you make sick."

A response was ready to roll off the tip of Pansy's tongue, but Blaise beat her to the punch. "Why don't you settle down, Draco. Before you say something you'll really regret."

"Oh?" Draco sighed, feigning defeat. "But I was only just getting started."

"Mudblood lover?" Pansy reiterated.

"Yeah. _Mudblood lover_," said Draco. "I hope for your sake that you're not as deaf as you are ugly."

"If I'm the Mudblood lover," Pansy began, her voice regaining some of its usual vigour. "Why was Granger coming to see _you_?"

Draco's hesitation lasted barely a moment. "Because she's a stupid, ugly, trumped up little Mudblood that—"

"That handed you a note?" Blaise provided.

"She's obsessed with me," Draco corrected. "Following me around like a lost puppy without its master. I can't be blamed for the actions of one feral bitch."

Blaise sighed. "No matter how intricate this web of lies is- and I'll give you credit, at first you had me convinced- you know that it can only last so long. And when the truth comes to light, well, I don't think you have resolve needed to deal with what's going to come your way."

"You're full of shit, Zabini. Both you are."

"That's rich, coming from you," said Blaise. "You spout off constantly: Mudblood this, Mudblood that, when anyone with half a brain can see you're infatuated with Granger."

"Half a brain? Guess that rules you out then," Draco spat.

By now Draco had released his hold on Pansy and withdrawn to a safe distance. No matter how much he wanted to lash out at either of them, he couldn't be bothered dealing with the inevitable repercussions.

"It wasn't just her I was doing a favour, Draco," Pansy chimed in. "Granger was going to say or do something that would have brought the sordid affair to light. And not even you could have talked your way out of that."

"We know," said Blaise. "Have done for a while now. And seriously, you're only fooling yourself. I can't say I'm happy about it, but this act of yours is painful to watch. I can't imagine the agony you go through on a daily basis just to keep your facade intact."

"The only _act_ I've been putting on," Draco began, looking each of them in eye in turn. "Is the _act_ of friendship I express every time either one of you repulsive cretins' steps within five feet of me. And let me tell you- let me make it perfectly clear- _that_ act _is_ agonizing."

"Why don't you tell us what you _really _think?" Blaise drawled sarcastically.

"Why don't _you_ go find the nearest cliff, blindfold each other, and then play a game of kiss chase... with any luck I won't see you again."

"That's not funny, Draco," said Pansy crossly.

"It wasn't _supposed_ to be," said Draco. "I've never liked either of you, but now I'm beyond tolerance. You'll both stay away from me from now on. Don't come near me, don't communicate with me. Don't even mention my name. And I mean it, I really do. This _friendship_ is over."

-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --

Hermione didn't regret a single thing. Even as Ginny Weasley began her tentative approach, she was still _so _sure. If Draco wanted to play games then that was fine. It wasn't within her power to stop him doing so, but she resolved to give him a taste of his own medicine. It sounded underhanded, spiteful, even, but desperate times called for desperate measures. And while she had always known that, the expression seemed more so significant since she had glimpsed what lay beneath his apathetic facade.

"Hermione," Ginny ventured.

Hermione looked up at her friend, forced a smile and gestured the seat beside her. Ginny dropped into it.

"Are you okay?" she continued.

Hermione nodded. "Not really."

"What's going on—I mean, you don't have to tell me, but you can if you want."

Hermione turned to face Ginny and frowned. "Why aren't Harry and Ron here, interrogating me?"

Ginny chuckled. "Well, it took quite a bit of persuading but I calmed them down. I told them whatever was going on, there would be a good explanation."

Hermione stared down at hands, wringing in her lap. "I'm afraid, Ginny, that there is no explanation. And if I even tried to explain the truth would come out. And the truth is likely far worse than any conclusion you, Harry or Ron happened to jump to."

Ginny opened her mouth to respond but a million different things popped into her head all at once, and it was a moment before words formed. "You and Malfoy?"

"Can I be honest with you?" asked Hermione.

"Of course you can. Always."

"I think I love him."

"Oh," was all Ginny could muster.

Hermione sighed. "Pretty pathetic, huh? The _Mudblood_ in love with the Pureblood who can't stand her. You couldn't make this stuff up."

Hermione felt Ginny snake an arm around her shoulders, pulling her into a comforting embrace.

"There's nothing pathetic about love, Hermione. And none of us can help _who _we fall in love with."

Hermione sucked in a shaky breath. "But why does it have to be _him_?"

Ginny didn't have a clue what to say to comfort her. She didn't know if Hermione wanted her to praise or knock Malfoy, and she feared that whatever she said would only further upset her friend. The only thing she knew for sure was that stopping Harry and Ron from confronting her had been a stroke of genius. That scenario couldn't possibly have ended well.

"I know you, Hermione," said Ginny, improvising. "Not only are you unbelievably intelligent, but you're kind too. And you always try to see the best in people. I know he's been a bastard, hurt a lot of people, but if you feel this way about him then I'm sure it's not without just cause. I'm sure there's something about him that's worth loving."

Hermione withdrew from the embrace and met Ginny gaze. "H-He's so hurt; so damaged. Sometimes I look at him and I want to cry, because I don't know how he keeps going. He does all these terrible things, hurts all these people, because someone, something, has ruined him. It used to be an act. The cruelty, the bullying; everything. But now it's time to live his own life, to make his own choices, he's lost. And with no one to guide him, to give him the help he needs, he can only revert back to the act, because it's all he knows. And I think that deep down it breaks his heart as much as it does mine to see what he's become. But for the life of him, he can't stop. He can't change. He can only carry on."

Before Hermione had opened her mouth Ginny had been toying with the consoling 'at least he's handsome.' And if that didn't work she was ready to jest and say 'at least he's rich.' But after Hermione's heartfelt admission either remark seemed incredibly insulting. Still, she was left speechless.

"And I know that despite everything he believes," Hermione continued wistfully. "He does, on some level, care for me. Maybe that's why I keep trying so hard to open him up. To get inside his broken shell and fix him. But there's more to it, Gin. I don't just want it to be a one off deal. I want to fix him and _then_ protect him, so that nobody can ruin him again. Every time I get close enough though he pushes me away. He'll let me see a part of him no one has ever seen before and then just as I'm getting comfortable he will say or do something that I know I shouldn't forgive, but ultimately I just can't help doing so. I used to wish I could pick and choose my feelings; now I wish that I could pick and choose his. Because I _do _love him; and I do want him. No matter the cost. My only fear is that by the time he lets me in it'll be too late, and even our combined years left on this earth will be but a fraction of the time needed to fix him."

"That doesn't make you pathetic, Hermione," said Ginny, after a brief silence. "There is nothing pathetic about compassion, or empathy."

"There is in his eyes," Hermione whispered.

"Well then he's blind. If he can't see how wonderful, how beautiful, how perfect you are, then he's blind."

"Seeing isn't the problem," said Hermione. "He sees more than you could imagine. Acknowledging it, that's where he has trouble. What no one seems to understand is that he doesn't hate the people he insults. Not really. Not truly. He hates only himself; and since it's easier to punish others, he projects that hate onto anyone unfortunate enough to get in his way. Why do you think he goaded Ron into hurting him? And why do you think he hasn't told a teacher, when he could quite easily get Ron in serious trouble? Because he doesn't care about any of that. He wasn't insulting Ron to hurt him, he was insulting Ron to hurt himself; both physically and emotionally. And the closer I get to him, the more affection I display, the more he lashes out, tries to hurt me in return. It's all part of the self-loathing, you see. He hates himself, and so he therefore hates anyone who likes him, or loves him, by association. It's a mess, I know. It's a great big, bloody mess and I don't know what to do."

Hermione sighed again, and realised that she felt a little better having shared with Ginny some of what weighed heavy on her heart. She hadn't the time or the desire to share the whole story and knew that she wouldn't be pushed to tell it. There was one thing still on her mind though.

"You won't tell them will you, Ginny?" asked Hermione. "I know they're my best friends but right now, I'm not ready to let them know. Not whilst I'm still coming to terms. It wouldn't be fair to anyone concerned."

As they embraced once more, Ginny whispered into her friend's ear, "Your secret's safe with me."

-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --

After speaking with Ginny, Hermione had to attend a Head's meeting with Ernie Macmillan, the Head Boy. She drifted through the patrol timetable and the Christmas decoration committee planning with practised ease. To any casual observer she may have appeared entirely attentive, but truth be told, her mind was elsewhere. Even when Ernie tried to flirt with her as they were packing up their things, she could focus only on what her heart desired.

Hermione assumed that Ginny lied to Harry and Ron; which meant regardless of the lie itself, there would be questions. Since she wasn't yet ready to face those questions, she decided that an afternoon spent in the library, rereading one of her favourite books, would be time well spent.

And so it was half an hour later in the library, her nose buried in Hogwarts: A History, that she received an unexpected visitor.

"Hello, Granger."


	16. Chapter XV: Defining Characteristics

Hermione looked up from her book, eyes wide as they took in the sight of Pansy Parkinson. The Slytherin girl had quite clearly been crying her eyes out in the last hour or so; smudged Mascara lined her bloody-shot eyes and ran down over her cheeks. Pansy didn't wait for an invitation and she took the seat across from Hermione, looking to her as if the two of them conversing casually was a perfectly normal occurrence.

"What are you reading?" asked Pansy.

"Uh-" Hermione hesitated. "It's-uh-Hogwarts: A History. My favourite book."

"Is this what you do for fun?" Pansy continued, more curious than malicious.

"Sometimes, yes," Hermione nodded, suddenly feeling as if she were being cross-examined.

"I guess that's why you're so smart, then," Pansy shrugged.

Was that a compliment? From Pansy Parkinson? The Queen Bitch of Slytherin, who, along with the object of Hermione's desires, had made her years at Hogwarts far more difficult than they needed to be. Had the World gone mad?

"So," Pansy began nonchalantly, eyes scanning the immediate area. "You're in love with Draco."

"Uh-" Hermione again hesitated. "Pardon?"

"You don't have to pretend around me, Granger."

"Well, I'm not pretending. I'm just shocked, that's all."

"What?" Pansy snapped. "Think I was too much of a bitch to help you out? Or maybe that I was too dumb to find the library?"

"Calm down, Pansy," said Hermione, her brow furrowed. "I wasn't trying to insult you. I'm just—well, we've never really spoken before. Unless of course you felt the need to call me a Mudblood or ridicule my hair."

Pansy clearly wasn't expecting that, as she looked equal parts stunned and embarrassed. "Yes, well, your hair was an awful mess, Granger. It looks somewhat... _better_ now."

"Thanks, I suppose."

"Don't mention it. If you let me I could straighten it, calm it down a bit. You could have hair just like mine."

Hermione pictured her face surrounded by Pansy's jet-black, shoulder length bob cut. She just about managed not to laugh out loud, resisting because of her desire to prevent Pansy from retracting the apparent proverbial olive branch on offer. Hermione really didn't like having enemies, and so if she could make peace with an antagonistic force in her everyday life then she was only too happy to help the process along.

"I'm fine, Pansy, but thank you."

"Suit yourself."

Pansy got up out of her chair and Hermione thought she was about to exit as abruptly as she entered, but after a moment spent foraging through the stack of books on the return trolley she returned, burying her own nose in a trashy paperback Hermione had glanced on occasion when she was returning her own plethora of literature.

"What are you reading?" Hermione asked, hiding an inexplicable smile.

"_The Defining Characteristics of Our One True Love_," said Pansy. "_My_ favourite book."

Hermione couldn't help the laughter that came next, and so intense was her sudden delight that she had to stop reading for a moment in an attempt to compose herself. Pansy, instead of being insulted, as Hermione thought she might, raised an eyebrow and peered at the Gryffindor girl over the top of her paperback.

"What's the matter, Granger? Didn't think I could read?"

"Something like that," Hermione said with a smile, her laughter gradually having died down.

Pansy looked at her for a long moment, her expression blank, before all of a sudden she stuck her tongue out and then hid a smile of her own.

This was how the next two hours passed. Little ironic jokes at the others expense, amused glances at people scattered at various points around them, and even the exchange of literature once they had each finished reading. Not much was said, but it didn't need to be. They were too busy confronting the knowledge that they enjoyed the company of someone so unlike themselves, and so delving deep into the other's mind was out of the question.

"I'm sorry," said Pansy not long after laughing like a hyena at the length of toilet paper hanging off the bottom of Michael Corner's shoe. "For being such a bitch. I know it's no excuse, but I was young, and impressionable. When you're in Slytherin, it's important to be popular. And there's nothing that says popularity like bullying Mud- I mean, Muggleborns. Like bullying Muggleborns."

"Its okay, Pansy," Hermione smiled, concerned more so with facilitating the welcome apology than reminding Pansy just how spiteful she had been over the years. "All is forgiven."

Pansy hesitated, opened her mouth to speak, and then hesitated again. It didn't take a Witch of Hermione's intellect to figure out the girl needed to get something off her chest.

"What is it?" asked Hermione.

"There's something else, but I'm not quite sure you'll want to hear it."

"Tell me, Pansy."

"Don't hate me," Pansy whispered. "And don't hate him. But since I'm saying sorry, getting things off my chest, I thought you ought to know that whilst my parents are Pureblooded, as I obviously am too, we are not quite as zealous when it comes to blood purity as either the Malfoy's or the Black's. It's important to us, our heritage, but it's not the literal end of the world. Anyway, my point is, Draco and I have always been friends. Since we were little. And if there is any one person responsible for my prejudice, then it's him."

Hermione sighed. How could an already impossible situation continue to get worse?

Pansy, seeing the disheartened look on Granger's face, hastened to add, "But remember, if he is responsible for my prejudice, then his Father is responsible for his. If I have someone to blame, then so does he. It's only fair. I just thought that if you planned on seeing this... _thing_, whatever it is, through to conclusion, then you ought to know as much of the truth as I can share."

Honestly, the shock of having it said out loud aside, Hermione could have guessed as much. If she hadn't wanted to see the good in him always, she would probably already have come to the conclusion that Draco Malfoy corrupted many of his housemates and influenced them into sharing his beliefs on blood purity. It hurt to acknowledge such a thing. It felt as if she, given her feelings for him, was in some way responsible. Was it that loving a monster made one feel guilty? Or was she perhaps by now so confused that she couldn't distinguish between his emotions, the ones she longed to comprehend, and her own, the ones she often tried in vain to control.

Then again, was it the chicken or the egg? If she blamed Draco for Pansy's disgusting behaviour then she had to blame Lucius Malfoy for his. And if she did that then she surely had to blame Lucius' father for corrupting him in the first place. It was a vicious cycle, one that could go on and on and on until she ventured so far back in time that her own advanced beliefs and value system made it impossible, and unfair, even, to judge the nature of the original sin. It was a conundrum; and she feared it would ultimately lead her astray if she allowed herself to delve too deep.

Still, she couldn't put aside the knowledge that much of the proverbial blood was on Draco's hands. Six years worth of bullying, of cruel names and spiteful remarks; and he alone was responsible.

"Oh."

"I shouldn't have told you that, should I?" said Pansy.

Hermione thought about it. She _really _thought about it. Yes, it wasn't something she wished to confront, but deep down, beneath the denial, she had always known it to be true. And in many ways it paled against the enormity of everything else. How much harm could one sin do the man who had long since sold his soul to the Devil?

"Its okay, Pansy. It doesn't change a thing."

"You really care about him, don't you?"

"Yes," said Hermione. "I really do."

"Then I'm sorry, Granger."

After that neither girl could figure out what to say. The silence seemed suffocating. It was only when the dinner bell rang, muted as it seemed from their position in the library, that Hermione made to leave. But as she was packing up her things Pansy began to panic. She couldn't dare ask Granger to _hang out_ with her, or to enter into even a casual friendship, but she wanted to see her again. To be around someone who wouldn't judge her, who wouldn't ridicule her, who wouldn't hold her up to such lofty standards. Around Granger she could be herself. And she liked that.

"Uh-Granger?" said Pansy as she began to pack up her own things.

"Yes?"

"Well-I-uh, have this assignment due next week and I'm having a lot of trouble with it. I know that if anyone can help me it's you, so-uh, do you mind giving me a hand?"

Hermione appreciated Pansy's precarious position. They had bonded, shared a joke or two, and perhaps laid the foundation for a friendship. But they were from different worlds and these things took time. There of course was no homework assignment, they both realised as much, and perhaps that was why the idea of meeting up again appealed to them both.

"Of course, Pansy. I would love to help."

"Thanks, Granger."

--- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---

"Look, Hermione," Ron began quietly. "I saw the scene with Malfoy in the Great Hall and while I'm not happy about it I _am_ willing to hear your side of the story... but if he has so much as laid one of his filthy hands on you I will fuc—"

"No, Ron!" Ginny sighed. "_Wrong_. All _wrong_. You need to keep the threats to a minimum."

Ginny placed her hands on her hips and glared at her older brother. The Gryffindor common room was quiet, almost deserted, but for Harry Potter, who was busy muffling his laughter with the palm of his hand, which earned him a face full of pillow at Ginny expense.

"And you can shut your mouth too, Harry," Ginny continued. "You're _supposed_ to be helping."

"But why," Harry whined. "When he's doing such a good job of it."

Ginny shook her head in disbelief. "Alright, Ron, give it another try. Hermione has just walked in but hasn't said anything yet. It's your job to confront her, but in a sympathetic manner. You're not angry. You're not pissed off. You're just worried about your friend's wellbeing."

"Okay," Ron inhaled deeply. "I can do this."

"Remember the three A's, Ron, when it comes to women," Harry counselled. "Acknowledge, accept and agree."

"You just made that up, Harry," said Ginny. "And it's lousy advice."

"Never fails to get me laid," Harry muttered under his breath before being overcome by a coughing fit. Ginny rolled her eyes.

"What did he say?!" asked Ron, already red in the face. "Did he—"

"Ron," Ginny soothed. "This isn't about Harry- or his big fat mouth- this is about you. Now _please_, she could be here any moment, so let's _try_ to get this right. Just once. That's all I ask."

"Alright," Ron nodded. "But then we're going to set some ground rules for what Harry can and can't say when I'm around. I mean—"

"RON!"

"Okay, okay, sorry, Ginny," said Ron. "Trying again. Okay. Here it goes. I can do this. Hermione... my good friend... hello, Hermione Granger, how are you this fine day?"

Harry was laughing again, louder than before, and to shut him up Ginny decided to go and sit on his torso. He spluttered for a moment, but then started laughing again.

"Ginny!" Ron grumbled. "He's making me feel insecure."

"You're both impossible. Harry, shut up. Ron, ignore him and try again."

Ron hesitated. "Maybe I shouldn't rehearse it because, you know, then it will _seem_ rehearsed and not from the heart. Which is what we're going for after all, isn't it?"

Ginny's glare was all the answer he needed.

"Fair enough," said Ron. "Okay, okay, okay. Here I go. Hermione, wow, you're looking good today, is that a new toothpaste you're using? Oh, it is? Wow, see how I noticed that? That's because lately I've been getting in touch with my compassionate side. My feminine side, you might say. Oh yeah, Harry and I even spent some time dressed up in some of Mum's old clothing to get a feel for it—"

When Harry's raucous laughter finally ceased it wasn't because he no longer found the situation funny. Ginny had shoved the corner of a cushion into his mouth.

"Okay, Ron, I don't know what the hell that was. And you know what? I don't want to know."

"That-uh-was a joke," Ron was quick to add. "Thought it might help to inject a bit of comedy into things, you know? Lighten the mood."

"Stick to what we talked about. And leave yours and Harry's extracurricular activities out of it."

Ginny turned just in time to see her boyfriend's innocent face as he mouthed 'He was joking'.

"HERMIONE!" Ron shouted all of a sudden.

"Ugh, Ron, you're not going to want to scare her away like that."

"What do you mean scare me away?" said Hermione from over by the portrait hole. Apparently Ron had been the first to see her, but soon they were all facing one another and Ron was beginning his careful approach.

"Hermione..." Ron ventured.

"Yes, Ron," Hermione replied, bemused as to her friend's behaviour.

"You look nice."

"Uh, thanks, Ron. You look nice too."

"Is that, uh, a new toothpaste you're using?"

"RON!" Ginny bellowed.

"What's this all about?" asked Hermione warily.

"I just wanted to say, Hermione, my good friend," said Ron. "That I, uh, saw what happened in the Great Hall and I'm entirely fine with it. Not even remotely pissed off. And I certainly do not want to grab hold of Malfoy's head and shove it up—"

"RON!" Harry and Ginny called out simultaneously.

"What I meant to say," Ron corrected. "Was that I love you, Hermione. And whatever choices you make, I'll stick by you. Always."

"Well, thanks, Ron, I know—"

"But if that ferret so much as looks at you the wrong way I'm going to castrate him."

"Oh-kay, Ron, thanks for that," said Ginny as she approached and placed an arm around her brother's waist. "Hermione, Ron and I are just going to have a little chat about a few things. Won't be long."

They disappeared up the dormitory stairs and Hermione slowly stepped into the common area, taking a seat beside Harry. They looked at one another, ignoring the muffled shouting coming from upstairs, and each smiled.

"It feels like an age since we last spoke, Harry," said Hermione.

Harry shrugged. "I'm always around."

"A-Are you angry?"

"Why would I be angry, Hermione?"

"For the same reason Ron just complimented me on my choice of toothpaste, I suppose."

Harry chuckled. "Malfoy isn't my favourite person in the world, but it could be worse. As long as you're happy and safe then you have my blessing."

"Not that I don't appreciate that, Harry, but there isn't exactly anything for you to bless."

Harry's brow furrowed. "So you and he aren't—"

"Seeing one another? No. We're most certainly _not_."

"Then what is going on?" asked Harry, his confusion evident. "That scene in the Great Hall—I didn't know what to make of it, to be honest."

"Neither did I," said Hermione earnestly. "I guess you'll have to just bear with me until I work out what's going on. Can you do that?"

"You're okay, aren't you?" Harry met her gaze and held it. "He's not hurting you?"

"No. Of course not."

"Then I can wait. I can wait as long as you need me to. Just remember, I'm here for you. Ginny's here for you. Ron, well—Ron will try. We love you, and we will stand by you no matter what. Don't be a stranger, Hermione."

"I won't, Harry. I promise."

--- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---

How dare they? How dare they gang up on him like that? Given, between them they had all the personality of a retarded troll, but that only made the matter all the more insulting. He was Draco fucking Malfoy and he ended friendships. He discarded people. And though he had managed to squeeze the last word in, a nauseating feeling in the pit of his stomach suggested to him that they were the ones responsible for the separation.

Of course, friendship might not have been the right word. Were such sycophantic cretins even capable of friendship? Was he even capable of friendship? Did friendship even exist as anything more than an abstract concept ripe for ridicule but otherwise entirely inconsequential?

As he stood alone in his dormitory, shrouded in darkness, he couldn't help but think back to the cause of his recent woes. That Mudblood would be the death of him. Whether directly or indirectly she would watch, and probably cry, as he crumbled at her feet. Ruin was one thing, but the end felt near. When he thought of the two of them lying together on that bed in the Hospital Wing he was struck by an impending sense of doom. As if such a union spelled the end of it all.

And honestly? He was ready to welcome that end. To stand by as the four horseman rode tall and ushered in apocalypse. But it was more than a mere willingness to concede. He encouraged the end. He prayed for it. So that he wouldn't have to wake up the next day thinking of that filthy Mudblood. Because he couldn't keep shoving his fingers down the back of his throat whenever the mere thought of her left him with a raging hard-on. Even he realised just how fucked up that really was.

Nor could he keep putting on these public displays. Blaise had been right about one thing, he was ranting an awful lot. Mudblood this, Mudblood that, and he was becoming predictable. Soon people would start to see through his facade and then his precious web of lies would be torn apart. And he wasn't quite sure he could stand holding the tattered remains in his hands as he looked out upon a sea of people all readily aware that he was infatuated with a Mudblood.

It wasn't that he feared the faces of his peers. Far from it. But he imagined the moment, pictured it very clearly, and the eyes looking back at him were cold grey, like his own. He and his kin were watching. And if such momentous shame were ever to materialise inside of him, he feared what lengths he might go to just to cleanse his frantic mind.

If he was indeed weak then so be it. Man was defined by such things.


	17. Chapter XVI: Tranquillize

It was Friday evening and the students of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry were busy preparing to go home for the Christmas holidays, which would officially begin Saturday morning. For most it was an eagerly anticipated reprieve from the rigours of day-to-day academia. Since the first day of term they had yearned to escape. Hogwarts was a wonderful place, but the enchanting atmosphere seemed less so apparent when locked away in a classroom. But even as boys and girls of all ages crammed clothes and books into their trunks, one or two students remained idle. They were amongst the few that would be spending their Christmas at Hogwarts, and their names Draco Malfoy could recite off the top of his head:

Malcolm Baddock

Sibyl Gray

Draco Malfoy

Pansy Parkinson

Ernie McMillan

Kevin Whitby

and

Hermione Granger

He at least had a reason. A bloody good one.

Draco did not want to spend his Christmas in an enormous house he still hadn't adjusted to being the sole occupant of. And it would be a very cold day in hell before he lowered himself to the company of house elves. So as far as he was concerned, he had no choice but to stay at Hogwarts. They, on the other hand, and that Mudblood in particular, had things to go home to. They had families. They had friends. They had presents and Christmas trees, and enough roast Turkey to see them through to the New Year. They could have hopped on the Hogwarts Express and gone home to _something_.

Even _she_ had a filthy Muggle family to greet her at King's Cross station. Why then did she have to ruin any hope he had of a sufficient Christmas? Because she was a self-centred, trumped up little bint, that's why. And if she wasn't making undue proclamations of love, she was befriending his ex-girlfriend and probably extracting from her all manner of sordid details to which she never should have been privy.

He thought his Christmas present this year would be the absence of _her_. What was it the Muggles believed? That if you were _naughty_ you went without gifts. In a really quite fucked up way, that sounded about right. Maybe when Draco gave Hermione her present, his hand wrapped around her throat, he could ask her about it. If anyone indeed knew, it would be that walking encyclopaedia of utterly useless facts.

Why couldn't she just piss off? Forget getting on the train and crawling back to whatever squalid, festering pit that spawned her. Why couldn't someone tie her to the tracks right before the Hogwarts Express departed? That would shut her up. That would wipe that disgusting look off her pretty little face. That would allow Draco to breathe easy.

Sadly, she wasn't going anywhere and he didn't know how much more he could take.

His wits end had long since been passed and he found himself constantly trembling. Honest to God. When she would pass him a note, the contents of which were revolting, he would focus so hard on the red spots forming before his eyes, and not the words on parchment, that his ears would pop and for the next day or so he would have an excruciating migraine.

When she would glance at him across the Great Hall, smiling always when their eyes met, he would hold his breath until he knew he was purple in the face and then he would stop, just so he could shake the cobwebs from his head long enough to examine the look upon her face. His eyes always opened just in time to see the concern fade and that fucking smile light up once more.

When she would invite Pansy over to the Gryffindor table, in an act that shocked even her moronic friends, he would bite down so hard on his tongue that the absence of blood in his mouth was all that could surprise him. Sometimes he swallowed, if he could bear it. Other times he spat it out into an empty goblet.

When she would get close enough to him in the corridor and purposely brush her arm against his, he would retreat to the bathroom, find an empty stall and cower in the corner like a complete coward- rocking back and forth, hands around his knees- until one of either two things happened: he was able to force himself to empty the contents of his stomach into the toilet bowl, or his raging hard-on subsided. It never was important which happened first, and results often varied.

The light at the end of the tunnel, the thing that told him the impossible was possible, had faded not long ago. He and Hermione Granger could never be as one. They could never share a thing. The battle between love and hate would never be at an end and the sooner she realised that, the sooner they both could get on with their own miserable lives.

He loved her. But love, it paled in comparison to his own self-loathing.

-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --

'Hermione, I'm bored,' Pansy whined. 'Can we please do something?_ Anything_.'

Hermione sighed and turned to look her friend in the eye. 'We are doing something. It's called homework.'

'This essay isn't due for weeks. Why are we doing it now?'

Hermione placed her quill down on the table top. 'To get it out of the way. So that when the time comes to hand it in, and everyone else is fretting, trying to get theirs finished, we can safely say it's done.'

'Or,' Pansy smirked. 'Alternatively, you could follow me to the dungeons and we can polish off that half a bottle of Fire Whisky I have hidden in the common room fireplace.'

'Pansy! You could get into serious trouble for that.'

Pansy rolled her eyes, smiled a slight smile and then forced herself to get on with her essay. Truth be told, she despised school work. Ninety-nine percent of what they learned at Hogwarts would be absolutely useless in later life. She was already proficient enough with her wand to get from A to B, and it wasn't like she wanted to be an Auror, so everything else was just overkill.

Why couldn't they have dance classes? Fashion classes? Even acting classes? Arithmancy may have thrilled Hermione, but it put her to sleep. The realisation that this was her last year was scant consolation, because she wanted nothing more than to escape Hogwarts and begin _real_ life.

It may then have come as quite a surprise then that Pansy decided to stay at school for the Christmas break, but when Hermione told her she was doing likewise Pansy had no other option. She told herself she was staying to protect Hermione from Draco, and perhaps there was some truth in that, but more than anything she wanted to be with her friend. Her first real friend in a lifetime spent avoiding such a thing.

Neither of them really knew how such a friendship had formed, and so quickly at that, but it had, and they each seemed reluctant to fight it. Even Hermione's friends had been nice. Except the Weasley boy, but according to Hermione he knew, better than anyone, how to hold a grudge. A Hogsmeade weekend (the last before the Christmas break) with Harry, Ginny and Hermione had been one of the best days of her life. She felt pathetic admitting that and so she didn't; not until she and Hermione were alone.

They talked together about many things, but rarely, if ever, would they discuss Draco Malfoy. The subject spoke for itself.

'Finished!' exclaimed Hermione. 'See, doesn't that feel _much _better?'

Pansy glowered at her. '_I _haven't finished yet.'

'Well I'll wait,' Hermione grinned. 'If only to stop you running off to your bottle of Fire Whisky.'

-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --

Almost a full hour later, Pansy having finally finished her essay, she and Hermione made their way down to the Great Hall, bumping into Harry on the way. He was in a buoyant mood; the prospect of time at the Burrow always brought a smile to his face.

'Hermione, Pansy,' he greeted with a nod. 'How's it going?'

Pansy sighed. 'Study session with Hermione, Harry... how do you think its going?'

Harry couldn't hold back his laughter, having been in Pansy's shoes on more than one occasion, but Hermione seemed surprised.

'We only completed one essay, Pansy,' said Hermione. 'I'd hardly call _that_ a session.'

'See what she's like, Harry?' Pansy sighed once more. 'I only wish she was this enthusiastic about doing my homework, as she is about doing her own.'

'But that would be cheating,' Hermione pointed out. 'I hope you're joking.'

Pansy turned and entered into the Great Hall, followed closely by Harry. She called out over her shoulder, 'But of course, Hermione. You know me and my sense of humour.'

Hermione followed them, the sound of Harry's laughter never fading. Sometime later, after Ginny and Ron (albeit reluctantly, in his case) had joined them at the Gryffindor table, Hermione found just cause to join Harry in laughing. Ginny did know the most wonderful sexual anecdotes and though they made her blush, Hermione couldn't help herself.

'You're lucky I was childhood friends with Draco Malfoy,' said Pansy. 'Otherwise that would have repulsed me, Ginny.'

Ginny smirked. 'I aim to please.'

Harry snaked an arm around Ginny's shoulder, but it wasn't that towards which Hermione had started to stare. Over Harry's shoulder she could see someone entering the Great Hall and before her senses had a chance to sync she realised just who it would be.

Only, as infamous as he was, his mere presence rarely triggered such a frenzied reaction amongst the student body. But then again, he rarely stumbled drunkenly into the Great Hall, an all but empty bottle of Fire Whisky in one hand and his school tie in the other. Furthermore, he seemed to have discarded his robe and was wearing only a pair of black trousers, a white undershirt and his school button up-shirt, which had been torn open.

'Speak of the devil,' said Ginny. 'I think Lord Malfoy has been at the liquor cabinet.'

Ron joined the hundreds of other students standing to get a better look, but Hermione stayed seated, staring a straight line through Draco's staggering form. The few teachers at the head of the Hall had taken notice, but such was their surprise that they hadn't yet reacted.

'Hermione,' Pansy whispered. 'This isn't good. Do something.'

Hermione turned to her, incredulous. 'And what is it you want me to do? Pour him a glass of coffee and ask him how much he's had to drink?'

A loud crash sounded through the Hall, and the briefest of glances confirmed to Hermione the most obvious cause. Draco had tried to take a seat. Draco had tried to take a seat and missed. Once the sound faded all that could be heard, for the students were silent, was Draco's manic laughter. The man who hated himself apparently took as much joy in his own misfortune as he surely would have in that of someone else.

It was a sad sight to behold. The richest, most dignified and graceful young man in Britain lying on his back on the floor, sipping a bottle of Fire Whisky and laughing his head off at something which he likely no longer remembered happening. He used the bench to pull himself up, but almost immediately he slipped, hit the floor and began laughing once more.

Hermione glanced up at the teachers table and noticed that one of the two teachers present had disappeared, hopefully to fetch Dumbledore, whilst the other watched but did nothing. It was too much for her to take, the scene playing out before her eyes, which was watched now by every single person in the Great Hall. She grabbed a hold of Pansy's hand and dragged her towards to the Slytherin table.

They leaned over Draco's prone form and he starred up at them with what they assumed was supposed to be his trademark smirk, but what came out looking more like an expression of how desperately he wanted, or needed, to throw up. Who knew how much he'd had to drink.

'Let's get him up and out of here,' whispered Hermione. 'Before he does something insane.'

They each grabbed hold of one of his arms, just under the shoulder, but soon found he was impossible to lift. It wasn't merely that he was being uncooperative, although that much was true. The fact remained that at six foot four he was just too much for them to lift. They were fortunate, then, that Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, wasn't above helping his drunken archenemy up off his ass.

Though he was shorter, Harry was strong enough to heave Malfoy to his feet. He was leading the boy out towards the Great Hall's exit when he stopped, as suddenly it was impossible to move him any further. Malfoy had put the brakes on and was now staring at Harry through bleary eyes.

'What a surprise,' he slurred. 'Harry Potter has come to my rescue. How fortunate I am.'

'Let's get you out of here, Malfoy. You don't want this kind of attention.'

'Oh no, that wouldn't do, would it? Someone other than you receiving attention. Call the Ministry! All is not right at Hogwarts.'

Harry ignored the barb and instead tried to budge him out of place and towards the exit, but it was no use.

'Look, everyone,' Draco continued. 'Potter is such an attention seeking little cretin that he'll even carry _me_ out of the Great Hall. As long as all eyes are on him, of course.'

'I'm trying to help you, you prick!' cried Harry.

At that Draco pushed him away. 'Fuck you, Potter! I don't need _your_ help.'

Draco turned on the spot, only to find himself face to face with Hermione Granger and Pansy Parkinson. He was laughing again, this time louder than before and suddenly he had an arm around each of them and was addressing the gathered crowd.

'I'd like you to introduce you all to my favourite two ladies in the world,' he began, and had he been sober he might have noticed them tense. 'To my left, Pansy Parkinson: the best shag this side of France. She'll do things to you that would make a whore blush. Honest to God. Anywhere, anytime, and any fantasy fulfilled. She'll let you drink Tequila out of her armpits. If I wasn't so drunk I might ask her if I could do exactly that. Again.'

Pansy, who was looking at the sea of people before her, appeared absolutely mortified. But for the life of her, she couldn't think of anything to say or do. And so, being a coward in her own mind, she averted her gaze to the floor and took in a series of deep breaths. She wished she were anywhere else.

'And to my right,' Draco continued, his head lulling to the side, dipping down so his nose was buried deep in her curly hair. His eyes shut of their own accord. 'Fuck, you smell great, Granger. If my dick wasn't numb, it'd be hard.'

Draco never got a chance to continue, or tell the crowd just what he thought of Granger. Albus Dumbledore, esteemed headmaster of Hogwarts, came flying through the open doors and in an instant had the boy by the scruff of his neck.

'Okay, this show is over,' Dumbledore bellowed. 'Return to your seats and enjoy your last night here before Christmas. Mr Malfoy shall be dealt with accordingly, I assure you.'

A few grumbles and groans, but soon everyone had returned to their seats. Draco was being dragged out of the Great Hall by Dumbledore, leaving Hermione, Pansy and Harry in his wake. But still he wore the smirk which wasn't quite a smirk and spoke as if until the very end he had maintained utmost control over the situation at hand.

'You're alight, old man,' he said to Dumbledore. 'You get my vote.'


	18. Chapter XVII: Walk the Plank

'Drink this,' said Dumbledore, and he held out before Draco a small vial of liquid, which in the dim light of the Headmaster's office looked almost transparent. 'It will sober you up.'

Draco rolled open his eyes and stared at what was on offer, but focus was hard to maintain through bleary eyes and he found himself instead staring at an overfilled bookcase on the far side of the room. He should have stayed in the common room and read a book. Just because he knew where Pansy had left that bottle of Fire Whisky, that didn't mean he had to consume it all and then make an absolute fool of himself in front of the insipid cretins that he called his peers.

Unfortunately, he wasn't so inebriated that he would wake up the following morning and remember nothing of his drunken escapades. And it was becoming increasingly clear to Draco that this night would be one he longed to forget. Fuck the happy ending; Draco would have oblivated himself if only he could remember the incantation. What was it he said about Pansy's armpits? Oh, how he adored life.

Dumbledore was practically shoving the potion in his face now, encouraging him to take it and drink, but Draco dismissed his efforts with a nod of the head. 'No. I don't want to be sober.'

Dumbledore sighed, placed the vial down on the lip of his desk and then took a seat across from him. The young man's pale face was marred by dark lines in the worst places, and the expression he wore was in itself disheartening. Albus Dumbledore had seen a lot in his days, but he never thought he'd see the son of Lucius Malfoy in such a disastrous state.

'And why's that?'

Had he been sober, Draco would have told the old codger where to stick his stupid questions. As it was, he didn't care one way or another. His shoulders slumped, and with them went any trace of resolve he might still have clung to.

'Because of _her_,' he breathed. 'Because when my mind is numb it's easier to think about her.'

Dumbledore nodded slowly. 'I assume you're referring to Miss Granger?'

Draco's lip curled into the slightest sneer. 'Oh, that's right. I forgot. Dumbledore the Voyeur. You see everything that goes on in this castle, don't you?

'Yes, that's right, Mister Malfoy,' Dumbledore chuckled. 'To an extent, at least. You and Miss Granger aren't exactly discreet in your relationship.'

'Relationship?' Draco spat furiously. 'I'd sooner kill myself.'

'We both know that's not true.'

Draco turned away from the older man, bowed his head and placed it in his hands. He didn't want to think about _her_. He didn't want to talk about _her_. He didn't want any of it to be real. What he wanted was to wake up tomorrow morning feeling nothing for Hermione Granger but outright disdain. If only he could look at her and see not a smile but the empty indifference she once reserved only for him. Like he wasn't worthy of her hatred; that's what he wanted.

'You don't know me,' said Draco irritably. 'You don't know me at all. Just because that Mudblood bint worships us both, don't assume you know me.'

'Why is it,' began Dumbledore. 'That you _insist_ on still referring to her as that? Does it remind you of who you once were? Because we both know you're not that spiteful little boy anymore.'

'No!' Draco bellowed, his head leaving his hands and his gaze on Dumbledore. 'I _refer_ to her as _that_, because _that's_ what she is.'

It was dark in the room. Beyond Dumbledore, who was right in front of him, and one or two other spots the faint candlelight reached, Draco couldn't see a thing. Why that old codger only lit two candles was beyond him. Senility was no excuse.

'You know what, _Albus_?' said Draco brazenly. 'You're a wanker.'

Dumbledore, whose expression had been drawn blank, suddenly frowned and looked down at the woven burgundy rug beneath him. 'Mister Malfoy, I would like to help you.'

'You're just like her. Like that Granger bint. I'm not a charity case. I don't want your pity. Can't you see that I just want to get on with my life? Why do you insist on interfering?'

Dumbledore lifted himself out of his chair with minimal effort and strode over to the far side of the room. When next he spoke he was staring out through his window, which overlooked the Forbidden Forest.

'I knew your Father, you know,' said Dumbledore placidly.

'Who didn't?' he shrugged. 'After you and you-know-who, there aren't many more famous people in the Wizarding World.'

'You misunderstand me, Draco,' Dumbledore continued, using the young man's given name for the first time. 'And I suppose I should have been more specific. I knew your Father _well._'

There was silence for a moment and it was stifling. Draco eventually swallowed the lump in his throat and then replied, 'My Father hated you. Well, he hated most people, but I believe he especially hated _you_.'

Dumbledore seemed unaffected. 'Your Father wasn't always the man you knew, Draco. It's obvious you try incredibly hard to emulate him, but it might interest you to know that when he was your age he was very much like you are now. He was confused, angry, resentful; sick of the world around him; and yet as articulate and intelligent as you seem to be. I wonder if he were still alive, whether he'd still remember. And whether, given the chance, he would reassume those flaws, if it meant saving his soul.'

The silence was gone, and in its place Draco's heavy, laboured breathing. If he balled his fists any tighter blood would draw up over his whitening knuckles, and then when he drove his fist into that prick's three hundred year old face he could watch the viscous liquid pour through the old man's wrinkles like water through a channel. Even the idea was satisfying, and it played out over and over in his mind's eye like a broken record that ought not to be fixed.

He was beginning to sober up now, slowly but surely, but it was still too dark to make out anything but the smarmy expression on Dumbledore's face. He had nothing to say that wouldn't get him expelled and nothing to do but sit and take the old man's feeble lecture like a good little boy.

'Draco, do you have anything to say?'

Was that an invitation to speak his mind or was he merely trying to induce an apology? Or had the old fool simply lost his marbles?

'I have a lot I'd like to say,' said Draco.

'Well then, speak your mind,' Dumbledore replied, nodding his head.

'You don't want that. You think you do, and so does she... she even put it in one of her notes. But the truth is, if I spoke my mind, if I let you in even for a moment, what you see would repulse you. I'm sure you, with your voyeuristic tendencies, have noticed my recent behaviour... it's been bizarre, erratic; self-destructive, even. And do you know why? Why I'm compelled to do such things? Because as much as I hate everyone and everything around me, I hate myself far more. '

Draco was certain now that the only thing that would sober him further was a good night's sleep. Sadly, the way Dumbledore prattled on, that could be a long time coming.

Dumbledore smiled a crooked, effortless sort of smile. 'The things we tell ourselves...'

Draco met the old man's gaze and sneered. 'What would you know?'

'I know that you're seventeen, Draco. And a man in the eyes of the Ministry of Magic. But I can't have you gallivanting around the school drunk, can I?'

It amazed Draco how Dumbledore could smile so assuredly while spouting such condescending rubbish. If he was to be suspended or expelled it would have happened already, and they both could have been saved the repulsive pep talk. But Dumbledore got off on such things.

'I want you here, at Hogwarts, Draco,' Dumbledore continued. 'Not only so that you might complete your education, but for the sake of your own sanity too. It really is the best place for you.'

Draco shrugged. And then rolled his eyes. He should have stayed in the common room and drunk himself into a literal stupor. While the idea of being found face down in a pool of his own vomit at three in the morning wasn't exactly appealing, it was all the same preferable to the current torment he was forced to endure. Where had his not quite empty bottle of Firewhisky gotten to, anyway?

Dumbledore wasn't ready to shut up, 'That said, I cannot have you pulling a stunt like this again. While I will do everything within my power to keep you here, ultimately the choices you make affect everyone around you. If you force my hand then I will have to expel you. Do you understand?'

Draco sighed theatrically and slumped back into his chair. 'Oh, I understand. After all, who in their right mind would want to leave this enchanting place? I love Mudbloods and sycophants. This is my heaven.'

'You know, Draco, they say sarcasm is the lowest form of wit.'

'Who said that?' asked Draco, irritably. 'My guess is that whoever did is about as witty as rocking horse.'

'It was a Muggle, actually,' said Dumbledore, a noticeable cheer to his already upbeat tone.

'Now _there's_ a surprise. A stupid Muggle.'

Dumbledore smiled, again, and rose slowly from his seat. Where he was going Draco hadn't the foggiest and before he knew it he was alone in the office and for obvious reasons it seemed quieter and darker than before. He wasn't afraid of the dark. In fact, when he slept, Draco required that there be no light and no sound at all, otherwise he simply couldn't nod off. But this office was unfamiliar, full of ridiculous little trinkets, Muggle and Wizard alike, not to mention portraits which likely held grudges against his kin. So while he wasn't frightened, per say, he wasn't particular comfortable in his surroundings, either.

Draco closed his eyes and breathed deep. Painted on the insides of his eyelids he was battling someone or something. The nature of the struggle eluded him, but one thing was for certain: he was losing.

-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --

Hermione used to love questions. Asking them; answering them; forming them in her head and holding onto them until the appropriate time. She even loved listening to other people ask questions; because within them she discovered angles and avenues that would never have crossed her mind. Questions were the first step towards expanding one's mind, and Hermione had never made a secret of her own thirst for knowledge. Some might even say she was famous for it.

A recurring theme of Hermione's _relationship_ with Draco seemed to be unanswerable questions, which she always, without fail, would come to regret asking; questions so logic defying that the unattainable answer was often the least worrying aspect of all.

Of course, Draco was an enigmatic figure. And even before her feelings for him had developed beyond unconditional loathing she had struggled to understand what drove him. For obvious reasons she never told anyone that she wondered why the boy who called her _Mudblood_ even bothered to get out of bed each morning. Her official story had been one of indifference; she made it seem as if not a single thing he said could bother her. But beneath the surface there had always existed some morbid fascination towards Draco Malfoy.

Perhaps now she had a fleeting understanding of him the nature of her fascination had changed, but how much had she really seen? How much had anyone seen? The display in the Great Hall was just another example of his utterly unfathomable behaviour. She wished she could take the easy way out and accuse him of trying to prove some rudimentary point, but before that could happen she would need to make some sense of it all. What point could be made with such behaviour?

In the weeks since their other equally inauspicious encounter in the Great Hall, Hermione had tried to communicate with him. There were little things like eye contact; faint physical contact that, but for his scowl, would have caused her to blush. She had even started leaving notes for him in spots where he, and he alone, could find them. Suffice to say, not a single one of her overtures had been well received and she was fast running out of ideas.

Then she noticed Draco's name on the list of students who would be staying at Hogwarts over the Christmas break and she couldn't resist signing herself up. If she could just get him alone and talk to him; open him up for longer than five seconds so that she could tell him the things she needed desperately for him to hear. That was the one present she wanted, but feared she would never receive.

Because although at the root of it all their feelings for one another may have beared some similarities, she needed only to look at her current predicament to realise the fundamental gulf between the two of them. While he was being reprimanded by the Headmaster for getting drunk and making a fool of himself in front of the entire school, she was outside waiting for him to emerge so she might once again try in vain to communicate with him.

Pansy, who was seated on the floor beside her, would often remind her just how futile her constant endeavour really was, but Hermione had always been stubborn. And she wasn't about to give up on Draco, because far too many people already had. He needed someone, and he wanted her. She knew it. And she also knew she felt the exact same way. Pansy just couldn't see such a thing, but that was understandable, given her standing relationship with him.

'How much longer do you plan on waiting?' asked Pansy, who was fiddling with the hem of her skirt, no doubt silently bemoaning the fact that it was still far too _long_ to show off her _great legs_.

'You don't have to stay, Pansy. I'll be fine on my own.'

'What kind of friend would I be if I left you alone with him?'

Hermione sighed. 'I've been alone with Draco plenty of times before. And I lived to tell the tale.'

'Yes,' said Pansy quietly. 'But this is different.'

'Different how?' Hermione pressed.

Pansy hesitated for a moment, and then turned to look at Hermione. 'You saw what he was like earlier. Drunk and acting like a lunatic. Who knows what he'll say or do?'

Hermione rolled her eyes. 'Have a little faith in Dumbledore. He wouldn't let Malfoy out of his sight if he thought he was a danger to anyone.'

Pansy turned away and muttered, 'Look, I just don't want you around him tonight, okay?'

'What?! Why?' Hermione paused and thought for a moment. 'This isn't because of what he said about you earlier, is it?'

Pansy didn't say a word.

'Pansy,' Hermione continued, nudging her with her elbow, refusing to allow her to get off the hook so easily. 'Answer me.'

When Pansy jerked her head to the side her lips were already pursed and she was squinting slightly; telltale signs of her apparent fury. 'Yes! It's because of what that bastard said earlier. Now everyone at school doesn't just think I'm a whore, they _know_ I'm one. And you and all your friends will think a lot less of me, won't you?'

'Of course not,' said Hermione, placing a comforting hand on Pansy's shoulder.

'You have to say that, because I'm here, but as soon as my back is turned you'll be laughing at me. And who could blame you? I'm just the whore that got dumped by Draco Malfoy.'

Hermione reached out to place her other hand on Pansy's shoulder, so she could embrace the distraught girl in a hug. But Pansy pushed her away and stood up. 'Why do you even like me? I wouldn't like me.'

'Pansy,' Hermione began, and she too got to her feet. 'What's gotten into you?'

'What's gotten _into_ me_?_' Pansy repeated, and though Hermione couldn't be sure it looked like she was starting to cry. 'Is that some horrible pun?'

Hermione clocked it straight away and regretted her choice of words. 'You _know_ I didn't mean it like that. I don't think you're a whore and neither do any of _our _friends. Because they like you, Pansy. They really do. And the only people who think less of you because you've had sex are small minded, and not worthy of your friendship.'

'But he said some pretty messed up things,' said Pansy, wiping away her tears. 'About... well, you heard him.'

'He was making stuff up though, because he was...' Hermione stopped midsentence, noticing the shamed look on Pansy's face. Perhaps he was telling the truth, after all. 'Oh.'

'See,' Pansy sniffed. 'You think less of me. Because of what we did.'

'Pansy,' Hermione pleaded. 'I swear to God, I think no less of you. There's nothing wrong with anything the two of you did. It's natural.'

Pansy starred at her disbelievingly. 'Letting him dowse me in Tequila and then lick it off is natural, is it?'

'Well,' Hermione bit her bottom lip, trying not to let that image linger too long in her mind's eye. 'In a sense, yes. It certainly doesn't make you a whore.'

Pansy dabbed away the last of her tears with the hem of her sleeve, but couldn't shake from her face the scowl. 'I need to be alone.'

'But...' It was already too late by the time Hermione began to object, and Pansy was long gone.

'My, my, Granger, the things you won't say or do for a potential charity case.'

Hermione's head whipped around and she found herself face to face with Draco Malfoy, who wasn't smirking or sneering, but merely staring back at her from over by the Headmaster's staircase with an unnerving ease about him.

'I know she's pathetic,' said Draco. 'But I thought I was to be the one you fawned over for the next six months. Or do you have another pity for the both of us?'

'How long have you been standing there?' asked Hermione, unnerved by his sudden appearance.

'Oh, I don't know. Ten minutes, maybe? Fifteen. Hard to keep track sometimes. I did catch your delicious pun though. _What's gotten into you_?' Draco began to chuckle. 'Genius, Granger. I couldn't have said it better myself.'

'She's supposed to be your friend.' Hermione frowned.

'Yes, well, what she is supposed to be and what she actually is are two entirely different things.'

Now Draco was smirking and striding carefully towards her. He didn't stop until they were toe to toe and he had to crane his neck at a funny angle to meet her skyward gaze. 'You'll understand, though,' Draco continued. 'That she was a bloody good shag. Not at first. She cried when she lost her virginity. Really cried. And I had to sit there with her for over an hour and hug her and kiss her and all that other nonsense. Finally she fell asleep so I could go to the bathroom and relieve myself.'

Hermione clenched her jaw. 'I don't want to hear this, Draco.'

Draco sneered. 'Don't you? Maybe we should re-enact it, instead.'

Before Hermione had a chance to register his words, his hands were on her backside and she was being pressed against him.

'Is this what you want, Granger? I mean, I know you're the sort of idealistic bint who believes in love and romance, but how far does that imagination of yours venture?' Draco now could feel her tremble and in response he gave her bum a squeeze. 'Far enough, it seems.'

'Let me go, Draco.'

Draco's hands left her backside, but settled around her waist. His face moved close to hers and his breath flushed over her crimson cheeks. His lips were by her ear, brushing the skin beneath it and when he began to whisper her breath caught in the back of her throat and the coil of desire in her belly tightened almost painfully.

'You're a virgin, right? I do hope so. In my fantasies you are. You always wear such modest underwear. White cotton, like Mummy laid out for you on the first day of school. And you're fumbling with my belt buckle and haven't a clue in general what to do. But I wouldn't have it any other way. Because I've worked it out, Granger. That's your appeal. That's why I want so desperately to fuck you. Because you're unspoilt, and you're precious. You've never felt a man's touch. Christ, you've probably never even felt your own touch, have you? Do you know how beautiful that is? Do you?'

Hermione honestly couldn't help herself and she began to shuffle around on the spot. An only vaguely familiar sensation in her nether regions was taking hold. Overpowering the justifications and explanations coming from her frantic mind and letting her know that this is what Ginny had talked about. Draco Malfoy wasn't merely the object of her _idealistic_ affections; he was turning her on. He was causing her to lose control of a part of her body to which she was afraid to venture alone.

'What do you want for Christmas, Granger?' asked Draco, as if to distract her from the fact that his hand was sliding beneath the waistband of her skirt and into the back of her knickers.

Hermione couldn't believe it and her breath grew shorter still. He was groping her! In the corridor! And though it was late, anyone could have walked by and witnessed them in the act of, well, whatever it was they were doing. All she could focus on now, having completely forgotten his question, was the small circles he drew on the exposed flesh of her backside with his calloused fingertips. She understood suddenly why she was itchy down there: her knickers (white cotton like he'd apparently imagined) were soaking wet.

'Aren't you going to answer the question, Granger?' Draco continued, still breathing down her neck, trying to focus on her and not his painful erection. 'What do you want for Christmas?'

Still he continued his lazy circles and Hermione couldn't fathom a single thing. What to say. What to do. How to react. How to answer his inane question. For the first time in her life she was being touched in such an intimate place, and by the man she desired most. But as perfect as it sounded, there was too much wrong with the situation at hand to get lost in and enjoy what it had to offer. Her heart was thumping against her chest and it wasn't just arousal or excitement. She was genuinely afraid of something or, perhaps, someone.

'Do you like this, Granger? Do you like what I'm doing?' Draco whispered into her ear, but as soon as he finished he had to pull away to look her in the eye. Her eyes though were closed, shut tight, and only when Draco placed his free hand under her chin did they open and allow her to meet his gaze. 'Answer the question.'

Hermione swallowed the lump in her throat and thought, really thought, not just about the question but about everything. The situation at hand. Him. Her. Reality. Past. Present. Future. And it all came down to the fact that she couldn't lie. Not to him. Not in that moment. Not when all she wanted from him was the truth. She couldn't deny him exactly that.

'Yes.'

Perhaps spurred on by her answer, Draco stopped his lazy circles and let his middle finger slip down between the cheeks of her bum. At first she tensed, noticeably, but soon she was quivering, trembling, and he had to hold her hip with his free hand so she didn't escape his grasp.

'Do you love me, Granger?' asked Draco, dragging his lips gently across hers, but ignoring her to attempt to draw him into a kiss. 'I think I know the answer, but I want to hear you say it out loud.'

Hermione didn't need to think. She knew the answer. But finding the words with his moist lips being dragged across her own and his middle finger toying with her most private of places was somewhat easier said than done. The rate at which her heart was beating made her anxious it was about to explode.

'Yes.'

Hermione closed her eyes and finally did what she longed to do all along: she lost herself in the moment and relaxed into his embrace. She stopped worrying and fretting about the things that for months had weighed heavy on her mind. Because this was real, this was it, and people didn't fall in love in plans or theories. They fell in love only when such things were thrown aside.

As if sensing the sudden shift, Draco moved in close, as before, to whisper in her ear, 'Do you know what, Granger?'

'What?' she whispered back, breathlessly.

'I don't love you.'

Her eyes snapped open just as his hand slipped out from the waistband of her knickers and his lips from off her own. He was staring at her with that cruel triumphant smirk few had seen since the War ended. She remembered well the man staring back at her and it wasn't the Draco Malfoy that she fell in love with. It was the cruel, spiteful boy who used to call her Mudblood at every opportunity. While she knew in her heart it was just a facade, even a facade could break one's heart.

'And I never will.'

All Hermione Granger had the power left to do as she watched the man she loved walk away was weep. Questions and answers flew haphazardly around her muddled mind, but the only thing she saw clearly were his lips as they intoned, again and again, the words 'I don't love you.' Whether such a things was true had been cause for deliberation in the past, but all of a sudden it seemed irrelevant. Maybe she never would know if Draco Malfoy loved her or not.

What she did know, however, was that regardless of the truth, Draco Malfoy did not _want_ to love her.


	19. Chapter XVIII: If I Sold My Soul

To put it plainly, Hermione Granger was devastated.

For a moment there with Draco, in his arms and under his gaze, it felt as if she were ascending to the very pinnacle of earthly euphoria. She couldn't have imagined anything more wonderful than the continuation of that perfect moment with the man she had come to love. All the preceding heartache seemed trivial by comparison, overshadowed as it was by absolute exhilaration.

Then he took a step back, drove his fist into her chest, and pulled out from inside her still beating heart; which, ironically, already belonged to him. Afterwards, Draco didn't stay to watch her struggle; to watch her gasp for air in a dark and desolate vacuum; to watch her clutch at the hollow that was her heart. He had better things to do than concern himself with her despair Perhaps he thought her insignificant in the grand scheme of things, and not worthy of his time or his mercy.

And who did she have to blame but herself? He had warned her away, threatened her even, but still she persisted in her questionable endeavour; chasing after a man not capable of love or affection. Though long ago he had whispered that he loved her, what truly had he done, besides stating such a thing, to establish it as gospel? One was to be judged not in a single moment, no matter how glorious it might have seemed, but in a lifetime; ultimately that should have opened up Hermione's eyes long ago.

She kept coming back to this idea of wanting to save him. Even Draco had pointed out as much, and on numerous occasions. And yes, maybe her empathy was at times overwhelming; but it certainly wasn't the be all and end all of her feelings for him. There was more to it; a certain something she never managed to put a finger on; something she had no real desire to comprehend. Because love was unfair; it was irrational; but most of all, it was inexplicable. When love could be defined by logic and reason, two things upon which in any other walk of life she would have happily relied, it wasn't really love. It was convenience. And she found the very idea of that ultimate outcome utterly depressing.

Ironic, really, considering that even with her own outlook on love she too was depressed. She supposed that was just the way of things. No, five wonderful minutes in his arms wasn't a fair trade for untold hours of total misery, but she knew the moment he approached that it wouldn't end well, and not even that discouraged her. And were she to live that moment out over again she highly doubted she would do a single thing differently. Things happened for a reason, she was sure of it; even if at times life seemed like a Shakespearean tragedy, and that they were all just waiting for Draco Malfoy to snap and go over the edge so they could come to their inevitable ends.

It had been a long journey, due in no small part to her leisurely pace, but Hermione did manage a slight smile when she arrived back at the Gryffindor portrait hole. Tomorrow most of her friends would be disappearing for the Christmas break, leaving her with the apparently very insecure Pansy Parkinson and the aforementioned walking, talking catastrophe, whose only _positive_ interactions with her were ultimately a means to her cause her harm.

'Granger?' called a voice, just as she was about to mutter the portrait's password.

Hermione spun around and found herself staring into the vaguely familiar face of Blaise Zabini. Why was it that Slytherins always snuck up on her? Of course they were sly by definition, but couldn't they find someone more accommodating to terrorise?

'Zabini, isn't it?'

'I see my reputation precedes me,' Zabini drawled sarcastically, but so silky was his voice that she assumed he rarely, if ever, came off sincere. 'At least we can forego introductions and get straight to the point.'

Hermione looked carefully at the boy in front of her. He was relatively tall, a little over six foot, and certainly handsome. Like Draco his expression was indifferent and yet not vacant, implying that a great deal about him was premeditated.

Pansy had told her that Zabini and Draco used to be close, since the War ended at least, but when Malfoy went off the deep end he effectively cut off ties with anyone he might have once considered a friend. Pansy also said that she no longer saw much of Zabini either, since they were acquainted through Draco and had no real standing association that didn't rely on at least one mutual friend.

'Straight to the point?' Hermione reiterated his baffling statement. 'What point?'

She was struck suddenly with a very foreboding feeling.

'You and Malfoy.'

It had come to the stage where Hermione just wanted the evening to end. As if what happened earlier wasn't enough, she now had Blaise Zabini quizzing her about her non-existent, and yet all the more bewildering, relationship with Draco Malfoy.

Noticing Hermione's not entirely forthcoming expression, Blaise continued, 'Granger, whatever fucked up relationship you and he share shouldn't really be any of my business. I mean, you're two consenting adults, right? Free to make your own choices. And that's honestly the way I looked at it at first. You know, when he started to stare at you whenever he thought nobody was looking; and when he would bring your name into the conversation for no apparent reason. Of course, he would always throw the word _Mudblood_ around whenever he did, but even Pansy saw through it; and she never was the particularly perceptive when it came to Draco.' Blaise sighed. 'Young love, huh?'

'Anyway,' Blaise went on. 'All things change, and I saw enough between the two of, you and Draco, to realise something was going on. He wasn't screwing you, I figured that out straight away, but by my estimation he was a panty sniff away from becoming your fulltime stalker. I thought you'd send him on his merry way; you're supposed to be smart after all, right? But turns out you and he are as fucked up as each other, and from that your screwed up excuse for a relationship did flourish.'

Hermione clenched her jaw to stop herself from saying something impolite. While it was warranted, it was all the same unnecessary. He was hardly courteous, but she assumed that his insult were merely a consequence of whatever point he was trying to make.

Hermione nodded. 'I imagine there's a point to this?'

'Oh, but of course,' said Blaise grinning. 'I just wanted a little overture. Otherwise this proposition might seem entirely uninformed.'

_Proposition_.

And just like that a cog turned, and alarm bells went off in Hermione's head. It had all started, this enormous mess she had gotten herself into, with a proposition from Draco Malfoy so very long ago. What at the time seemed insane, and obviously was, had developed over time into something she hadn't the willpower to try and explain. She couldn't remember when last she actually thought about that day in the library. The day Draco had asked her, in the calmest of voices, to punch him as hard as she possibly could. Only, painted against a backdrop containing everything else that had transpired since, that request didn't seem quite so absurd. It fit perfectly with what was to come.

Then she remembered her initial reaction to Draco, whom she at the time was positive she hated, when he said he had a proposition for her. She thought he was going to ask her to sleep with him. And suddenly she was very worried that, given his _overture_, Blaise was preparing to ask of her exactly that. Not that she would have to think about her answer, but all the same she wasn't sure she could handle such a question in her current state. Hadn't she endured enough for one evening?

Movement caught her eye and Hermione looked up just in time to see Blaise pull from within his robes a length of string. The string was tied in a knot at one end, and hanging by that knot was a key. A large key that had intricate markings etched into its rusted handle. Hermione was left searching for clues and ultimately finding none.

'What's that?' she asked.

'It's a key,' Blaise replied condescendingly. 'I would have thought that much was obvious.'

Hermione decided she was above a biting retort. 'Why are you showing it to me?'

Blaise suddenly thought of a great joke involving a chastity belt, but realised such risqué humour would probably be lost on Granger, who was a notorious prude. Since falling out with Draco his perceived wit had often been wasted on a less appreciative audience. Although Nott and few of the other more astute Slytherins would get the joke, it just wasn't the same.

'Granger, Malfoy has always been a bit of a head case; ever since he and I first met. But there was a time when you had to get close to him, which in itself is a rarity, to find such a thing out. Now that you're in his head though, plaguing his thoughts, he wears his madness like a shiny badge of honour. Can you honestly imagine Draco, before you and he started exchanging saliva, doing any of the shit he does now? No, you can't, because that Draco had at least some sense. He could reign himself in when need be. His impressive restraint is still there, I'm quite sure of that, but his desire to use it is long gone. Long story short, it's because of you.'

Hermione raised her chin defiantly. 'What do you want? An apology? Like you said, he was a head case long before I came along.'

'Yes, indeed, Granger,' Blaise continued. 'But a head case I could handle. A head case whose company I quite enjoyed. So, here is the proposition: give me my best friend back and-'

'I haven't taken him away,' Hermione interrupted him. 'And I have no power over him.'

Blaise began to tut. 'Just because you were raised by filth, that doesn't mean you have to adhere so strictly to the atrocious manners they taught you. When I am speaking, you do not interrupt. Understand?'

Hermione's brow furrowed, and her minor irritation was replaced by indignation. 'I don't need to listen to this. Goodbye.'

As soon as she turned to face the Gryffindor portrait hole, Blaise manoeuvred himself in front of her, effectively blocking her path to safety. Despite everything, he maintained his indifferent facade.

'May I continue?' asked Blaise.

Hermione didn't respond and she didn't nod her head yes or no. She merely stared at something entirely uninteresting over Blaise's left shoulder and pursed her lips.

'Thank you.' Blaise nodded, her silence all the answer he required. 'As I was saying: give me my best friend back. Do not talk to him; do not make eye contact with him; do not communicate with him in any way. Do not even spare him a thought. Just cut Draco Malfoy clean out of your otherwise normal life and move on. In return for this favour to me-' Blaise grinned and held up the key once more. 'I shall give you this key to one of several vaults of mine at Gringotts, and you may help yourself to the money inside.'

Hermione's eyes widened. 'You're buying me off?!'

'Well, I wouldn't personally put it in such crude terms, but yes. I suppose I am.'

Indignation didn't do her justice. 'Who do you think I am?' asked Hermione crossly. 'That I would take your dirty money in exchange for living my life by your rules. We may not know each other, but I had hoped you thought more of me. You could offer me all the money in the world and I still would never agree. There are things in life more important to me.'

'Like Draco?' Blaise smirked.

'No! Like free will.'

'You disappoint me, Granger.'

'I don't care, Zabini,' Hermione spat. 'Do you want to know what the most ironic thing is? I had not long ago decided to stop pursuing my relationship with Draco and to leave him alone for good. Since, quite obviously, that's what he wants me to do. So I could have taken your money and claimed that was why I decided to leave him alone. But whereas both you and he are shameless, spineless bastards, I have morals, and far too much self-respect to ever even consider such an offer. So you take your key, Zabini. And you take your friend. And you have a good life.'

Blaise could not have failed to recognise that by now Hermione was crying, but once more his expression gave nothing away.

'You can tell him whatever you want, by the way,' she continued, distraught. 'Tell him that I took your money, if that will help your _friendship_. Or tell him that my last words to you were that I would always love him, if that, somehow, will cheer him up when he has nothing and no one but you and a horde of sycophants who, deep down, he cannot stand. You do what you need to do Blaise, and you have a nice life.'

Hermione nudged him out the way, muttered the portrait password and stepped inside the Gryffindor common room. One would do well not to dwell on things.

* * *

_**  
**_**Author's Note**

**Hey guys. I thought I'd give an update since, well, I never give updates.**

**Wash Away is drawing very close to it's conclusion. This stage of the story is almost through and I am aching to write the sequel. Obviously it will be a direct sequel, same characters and relationships etc, but it will be somewhat more plot driven. Emphasis will remain on character and character development and the tone will be similar, but the point is that there are sufficient enough differences to warrant it being considered a sequel. As soon as this story finishes I will begin working on it.**

**I'd also like to say thanks to my readers, since I'm giving an update. Those of you that review and review on a regular basis not only make me smile with your kind words, but inspire me to continue on with this story and with my writing in general. Those of you that read and do not review, I assure you I don't mind. I appreciate that you enjoy my story enough to follow, even if you do so silently. I love to write more than you could imagine; feedback is just an added bonus sites like this afford me.**

**Thanks for reading.**


	20. Chapter XIX: Start as You Mean to Go On

Hermione wrapped her two best friends, Harry Potter and Ron Weasley, in an all too constricting embrace. They returned the favour, even adding a comforting pat on the back for good measure. If they were unnerved by her silence on the journey to Hogsmeade station, then the sudden display of emotion only served to heighten their unease. For weeks they had begged Hermione not to stay at Hogwarts for the Christmas break, not when she had her own family, and a family of Weasley's, desperate to see her. As far as they could tell her decision just didn't make sense.

'I'm going to miss you both so much,' she whispered anxiously, knowing that all too soon they would disappear. 'You'll both write, won't you?'

Hermione let go, took a step back and looked at each of them in turn. Certainly they were perplexed by her behaviour, and she realised instantly why. Explaining things, personal things, to those two, no matter how close the three of them were, had always been difficult. The past few months or so it had grown trickier still, until the regrettable point had come where she shared next to nothing with them. Her silence notwithstanding, she still loved having them around; more than even they could ever imagine. Because just being with them made her feel safe, not from any physical harm or even from an outside influence; but from the detrimental effect of her own woes.

'Of course we will,' Ron lied, but Hermione loved it for him all the same.

'You know us,' said Harry cheekily, recalling several past instances where the three of them had shared an almost identical dialogue. 'No better way to spend our holidays than quill in hand.'

Out of the corner of her eye Hermione noticed Pansy and Ginny, who had fast become friends, sharing a joke. As much as such a thing delighted her, it sadly was a constant reminder of the irredeemable Slytherin upon whom she wasted months of her life. Draco and Pansy were similar in many ways, only his problems didn't merely run skin deep. There were skeletons in his closet that even he, in his darkest of moments, was too blind, or too frightened, to really recognise. Perhaps it was cowardice; or perhaps Draco's defining characteristic was somehow more elusive. That is to say, would one word ever be enough?

That book of Pansy's, _The Defining Characteristics of Our One True Love_, mentioned something about the truth in all men. Admittedly it was little more than a trashy romance novel masquerading as an encyclopaedia of love, but it got her thinking. What truth was there to him? What could both describe and shed new light on a man so troubled? Long and hard she'd thought, but ultimately the only answer was that there wasn't one. A lifetime spent analysing and studying Draco Malfoy would be a lifetime wasted, because what lurked beneath the surface was by no means tangible. He wasn't a mystery, because such a label implied a solution; he was, she decided, nothingness; _little_ more than a conscious void.

It was for that reason, but yet not that reason alone, her quest to win his heart would finally come to its end. She was done with it. And while her romantic inclinations would see to it she never forgot the way his hot breath flushed across her cheeks in the seconds preceding what could only be described as a perfect kiss, she resolved to use logic and reason to subdue her primal urges. The idea of being a bitter and twisted old spinster frightened her; but so did Draco Malfoy.

Harry, Ron and Ginny were climbing up into their carriage, and she felt Pansy approach from behind and link arms with her. Hermione was glad to have someone there with her as she waved goodbye; otherwise she wasn't sure she could see the farewell through to conclusion. And nothing worried friends quite like a tearful dash away from the scene of departure.

'You okay?' said Pansy in a small voice, and when there was immediate response she nudged Hermione in the side.

'Yes.' Hermione nodded. 'I'll just miss them—that's all.'

Meanwhile, on the train, which was now pulling out of the station, Harry, Ron and Ginny were taking their seats in the last remaining unoccupied compartment. Ron stretched himself out across three seats on one side, while Harry and Ginny settled together opposite him. It was Ginny who broke what was fast growing into an uncomfortable silence.

'Do you think she's alright?'

Ron shrugged. 'Dunno. Not sure about leaving her with that Parkinson girl.'

'That's not what I meant, Ron,' said Ginny, a little irritably. '_Pansy_ should be the least of your worries.'

'She's right,' Harry agreed, and he turned to stare out of the window. 'Something's up with her.'

'Oh, Harry,' Ginny sighed, squeezing her boyfriend's hand. 'Just say his name.'

A long pause followed, but finally Harry spoke, 'Malfoy.'

'I hate that git.' Ron interjected with a groan. 'I mean, yeah, I always have. _We_ always have. But it's always either one of two extremes with him. I thought six years of having him torment Hermione was bad enough, but now this? I don't even know what _this _is, but it still drives me nuts. Telling her I was _fine_ with it—that was one of the stupidest things I've ever said. Because I'm not even remotely fine with it. Just knowing she's there at Hogwarts with that git, without us there to protect—well, I might as well start saving up for the therapy she'll one day need.'

Ginny had managed to hold her tongue and wait until her brother finished. No mean feat for her. 'Ron, you're being ridiculous. Hermione is a grown woman; she can do as she pleases.'

'No, Ginny,' Ron countered, his voice even despite his irritation. 'You're the one being ridiculous if you think this thing with Malfoy can have a happy ending. I may not always be the best friend in the world, but I love her. And I want what's best for her. It's safe to say that isn't Malfoy.'

'Harry!' Ginny urged, nudging her boyfriend. 'Say something. Tell my brother he shouldn't interfere in Hermione's love life.'

Harry removed his glasses and began cleaning them with the sleeve of his robe. He didn't know what to say, and he feared that even if he did he would have no great inclination to express it out loud. 'I don't know,' said Harry finally. 'And I don't think either of you do, either. Ginny, yeah, you're right: Hermione is a big girl and we can't just tell her what to do. But we're her friends, and don't we owe her some kind of guidance? Guidance _away_ from Draco Malfoy.'

Ginny scoffed. 'I'm not sure _guidance_ is what my brother had in mind.'

'Look,' Ron began. 'You two can do what you like. It's up to you. But as soon as we're back at Hogwarts I'm going to do everything within my power to stop Malfoy getting his grubby little hands on my best friend. If you want to just do nothing then whatever, but you're welcome to help.'

Harry, even with all of his own confusion, knew one thing for certain: Ron Weasley was not one to make empty threats.

--- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---

Long after the cloud of smoke that accompanied the Hogwarts Express had disappeared, Hermione still was thinking about her departing friends. Pansy was by her side and they were trudging back to the castle, neither of them managing more than a few words. Perhaps her pensive mood was to blame, but the atmosphere was entirely unsettling; for the next few weeks Pansy would be her only real companionship, and so uncomfortable silences that might just linger were to be avoided at all costs.

'Pansy?' Hermione ventured, turning to her and forcing a smile.

'Hmm?' she replied, making no effort to hide her previous distraction.

'Are you starting to regret not going home for Christmas?'

Pansy frowned as she thought the question over. 'Why do you ask?'

'Because I am,' said Hermione. 'And I just thought you ought to know that.'

Pansy nodded. 'Well I assure you, I'm not. I would sooner be here, with you, than in that mausoleum I call home.'

'But surely you must miss your parents?' Hermione persisted.

Pansy again frowned, but this time her pause said it all. 'No, Hermione. I don't miss them. Not really. They're always too busy trying to buy me the perfect gift to realise that I want more than that. When I was thirteen that was great, getting anything I could possibly want. And still, I won't deny, I enjoy it to a degree. But it all feels so hollow now. This year they can send me all those things I'll never need, instead of giving them to me in person. I'm sure by lunchtime they'll have forgotten they even have a daughter.'

After that revelation, Hermione found herself warming to the idea of uncomfortable silence, but she persevered despite herself. 'Some people just don't know how to properly express their love, Pansy.'

Pansy sighed, turned away and said in a small voice, 'Don't I know it.'

Hermione understood that there was more to the admission than parental issues, because she too had fallen foul of the handsome, cowardly Draco Malfoy. She feared that perhaps he had broken every romantic bone in her body, as he had surely done exactly that to Pansy at some point in time. He wasn't merely capable of destruction; he had mastered the art like no other before him. The future looked ever so bleak from where she was standing.

'But listen to me,' Pansy added, forcing a smile of her own. 'Rabbiting on like that. It's Christmas, I'm sure we can think of something better to talk about that my Mummy and Daddy isues.'

'Pansy, it's okay to be upset,' Hermione consoled, touching her friend on the shoulder and giving a slight squeeze. 'You're only human.'

'I'm not upset,' Pansy corrected, an unfortunate familiarity to her tone that reminded Hermione of the way things used to. 'I'm fine. Now tell me, what presents did you get your friends?'

After a short walk, they reached the castle, and the two girls headed straight for the Great Hall. Dinner, a quiet affair given Hogwarts' reduced populace, was still just over an hour away, but neither of them felt comfortable in their practically uninhabited common rooms. Such things were rarely expressed out loud between Hermione and Pansy, as they were still growing accustomed to one another, but answers could always be found in the manner of silence that passed between them.

The doors to the Great Hall were in sight, almost within reach, but they swung open mere moments before and out stepped Draco Malfoy. There were three of them now, in the foyer just outside the Hall, and each one of them were silent and still; in effect because their respective paths were now blocked and whoever made the first move would have to do so in a backwards direction, losing proverbial ground in the battle at hand.

At least that was how Draco, with his curious, rigid expression and squared shoulders, saw it. He knew time, his time, was now at something of a premium, which in itself was hazardous; because he wasn't used to rushing his endeavours. It was contrary to his very nature.

His modus operandi was to take a step back, survey the situation at hand, and then, and only then, act accordingly. Because it was true that fools did rush in, and he knew enough of them to have witnessed several literal representations of that particular expression. And often he found that it was the foolish ones that could serve, by some ironic accident, as the best teachers of all. Never was one more certain of what not to do than when witnessing another do exactly that. The almost immediate realisation of their folly helped articulate the point, but all the same it wasn't essential to the lesson at hand.

Draco took a long, hard look at the two young women before him. Though he knew he was indeed smack bang in the middle of a moment of grave consequence, he couldn't for the life of him manage more than mild curiosity, and feared almost immediately that lethargy had set in. And it was barely midday. He would blame his sleeping pattern, but of late it had become less of a pattern and more of a series of fifteen to twenty minute periods in which is addling brain would allow his tired eyes the briefest respite.

Pansy though, who never objected to being stared at, and often stared back, looked pretty but somehow tired. Not physically, because her pale complexion appeared as flawless as ever, but there was a despondent greyness about her eyes that only occurred to him because he was used to seeing them alight. Her shoulder length black hair was clean and tidy, but all the same unattended to. He scornfully blamed that on any manner of friendship with Granger, whose hair care tips likely stopped and started at head lice prevention. Pansy would always be beautiful to him, but he likened the attraction to how one might admire a fine work of art; to be impressed, but all together impassive to the spectacle at hand.

Granger, on the other hand, painted a distinctly different picture. For years he had seen in her only a bland, bushy-haired little cretin, whose physical interaction with the opposite sex would comprise of teenage fumbling that never quite got beyond the outer layers of clothing, and then conclude on a wedding night with an inexperienced and altogether useless lover who spent thirty seconds prodding the inside of her thigh with the head of his penis before climaxing with a monstrous grunt and collapsing beside her. Hermione, being the dutiful wife, would respond affirmatively to his need for instant reassurance, despite the wholly miserable and unsatisfied feeling replacing the very slight arousal pitted in her loins; then once he (the thigh-humper) and proud Mr. Hermione Granger fell asleep, she would retreat to the honeymoon suite bathroom and throw up between phases of entirely uncontrollable sobbing.

Slowly but surely, Granger developed into something more. And Draco, being a vain creature, could not help but notice the glorious metamorphosis in the girl. The hair was still far too wild for his tastes, but it could all of a sudden be reasonably referred to as curly instead of bushy. Likewise her teeth, as beaver like as human evolution was capable of producing, ironically shrunk around about the time he charmed them as part of a hilarious practical joke to grow to a preposterous length. When finally these things, things she had been mocked for, faded, the beautiful swan merged from out within the shell of that ugly duckling and now Draco was sure on some level that he likely never would see someone or something more beautiful than she seemed.

Big brown eyes that shimmered both when she smiled and when she cried. Eyes that didn't quite tell a story, but that made you wish they did all the same. And a tiny little nose, sprinkled in a smattering of freckles so light that you had to get close, really close, to make them out. Her nose didn't have the same slight upturn as Pansy's, or the slight rotund quality of Lavender Brown's. It was perfect; Blaise used to say that it was a girl's slight facial imperfections that made her beautiful, but the obvious exception was Hermione Granger's nose. Then there was her mouth, a slightly perplexing feature, in that it was so small but was surrounded by such full lips. Lips that felt like heaven to kiss; warm and soft; lips that tasted as innocent as they felt beneath his own. He was sure he hadn't been her first kiss, but there can't have been many before him.

Then there was that body of hers, that because of the clothes she wore he had only been granted glimpses of. Breasts that while not small complimented her lithe frame. Legs just long enough to tie at the ankles when they were wrapped around his hips. And a waist so slim that he could sling one single arm around it, lift her up and hoist her over his shoulder. He was tall at six foot four inches, and she would be lucky if she reached fix foot eight. Yes, he had to crane his neck downwards an awful long way to meet her lips, and likewise to meet her big, beautiful brown eyes, but the wait as he descended only made the payload seem all the more magnificent because of it.

Indeed, Draco had known for a long time, long before he knew he loved the girl, that physically he could ask for nothing more. When she opened herself up to him however, and tended to his own wounds with the gentlest, most adoring of touches, he knew he was done for. Perhaps the one person with whom any relationship would be unforgivable, and he was worshipping her, mind, body and soul. Fate had a really twisted, fucked up sense of humour. He believed himself a product of it. Because he would always love Hermione Granger- the Mudblood bint, the flawless Goddess- until the day he died.

Since they could never be together, for neither of them could truly forgive him for his sins, he had to take drastic action and move on. He couldn't even imagine their wedding. It would be a catastrophe. Her side of the church filled with people that sincerely loathed him, as much as was humanly possible, and his side completely barren, for what little family he had left would not stand idly by and watch as he pledged himself to a Mudblood. And that was the mere tip of the gargantuan iceberg that stood between them. In the end their love, in its most simplistic form, was all they would ever share. At times that comforted Draco; at other times it made him weep until the sun came up.

'Goodbye, Parkinson,' said Draco wistfully. 'Goodbye, Granger.'

In the end, and he _was_ sure that the end was near, who would he be but a speck on the grand spectrum that was their lives? Draco Malfoy may have been a big fish at Hogwarts, but the way he had it planned, he would be anything but that in the real world. And ultimately, that would be best for him. Because he couldn't live a normal life: kids, a wife, a nice cushy job. He barely dealt with his own issues, and theirs on top of his would be far too much too endure. Likewise, he couldn't put his feet up on a Sunday, cup of tea in one hand, Daily Prophet in the other. Because if he thumbed through to the gossip section and saw a picture of Granger leaving a high class eatery with some tosser from the Ministry, he would do something so drastic that even he couldn't bribe his way out of it.

Hermione and Pansy stared curiously at him as he strolled away, equally perplexed as to what on Earth had just happened. When he was out of sight they continued on into the Great Hall, as intended, but the questions far outweighed the answers and they each feared the worst. They took a seat at the Gryffindor table and eventually gazed at one another.

'You got him a Christmas present, didn't you?' asked Pansy, breaking the silence.

Hermione's nose wrinkled, which was a sure-fire sign that she was trying to think up a lie.

'What did you get him?' Pansy persisted.

Hermione let out a sigh, and propped her chin up in the palm of her hand. 'I'd rather not say. I brought it a few weeks ago, before, well, the incident outside Dumbledore's office.'

'You mean when he shoved his hand down your knickers?' said Pansy, bluntly.

Hermione looked appalled, and had to glance around the Great Hall to make sure no one else had heard _that_. 'Pansy!'

'There's no shame in it, Hermione,' Pansy added, grinning like an idiot. 'So you got turned on by a little action from behind. We've all been there.'

'That's not funny,' Hermione sulked, her bottom lip poking in out in what was a perfect pout.

'It is... a little, at least.'

Hermione looked at her through narrowed eyes and then sighed once more. 'It isn't. It reminds me that I was just a game to him. And what's worse is that he could have taken advantage of me there and then, and I wouldn't have stopped him.'

'Alright,' Pansy began carefully, knowing from experience to tread softly in such dangerous territory. 'If you're so over the idea of Draco Malfoy then tell me what you got him. What harm can it do?'

'Well, for starters you could laugh,' said Hermione, explaining the situation in such an even murmur that she might as well have been tutoring a fourth year Arithmancy student who couldn't get past page ten of the set textbook. 'Or I suppose you could think less of me.'

'Hermione, you're the nice one in this relationship. The one people consider a good person. What reason could I possibly have for thinking less of you?'

'Please, Pansy, can we just drop it? I don't want to talk about him or his present. In fact, first thing I'm going to do when I get back to the common room is find it and toss it on the fire. It's no use to anyone else now, is it?'

Pansy frowned, and edged in a little closer. 'I know after the whole... knickers incident...' Pansy continued, despite the scornful look on Hermione's face. 'That you're ready to move on, but do you really want to? I know how you feel about him. Are you really ready to give up?'

'Give up?' Hermione repeated irritably. 'He gave up long ago. Why aren't I allowed to do the same?'

'Because, like I've already said, you're the one people consider a good person. No one Draco's ever met would call _him _a good person.'

'And that surprises you, does it?'

'No, but—'

'People don't consider him a good person,' Hermione interrupted, overcome by the sudden urge to prove a redundant point. 'Because they're smart enough not to be fooled by his _act_. Sadly, the same can't be said for me. It was months before I realised.'

'Realised what, Hermione?' Pansy urged, more for her friends sake than her own. 'What did you realise? What great epiphany did you have?'

Hermione thought about the question, because though she knew the answer she had never expressed it out loud. Perhaps it would be good for her do so. 'That he cannot love me, you, or anyone else.' Hermione paused before adding, 'And that he died that day with his parents.'

Pansy looked her in the eye, her shoulders slumped and her expression blank. 'Maybe you're right. I fear you know Draco better than any of us do. '

--- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---

While there were certainly less people to cater for that evening, dinner was as wonderful as ever. Both Hermione and Pansy ate just enough, but neither felt particularly in the mood to indulge their respective sweet tooth. Perhaps they were far too consumed with the unsettling sight of so few students surrounding them. Perhaps that was just a convenient excuse.

As if in sync with Hermione pushing her nearly empty plate away, the doors to the Great Hall swung open. This time it wasn't Draco Malfoy that stepped through, but a somewhat frantic looking Albus Dumbledore; who, after a moment's hesitation, headed towards them. Clutched in his left hand, Hermione noticed, was a scrap of parchment that he seemed to have an especially tight grip on.

'Miss Granger, Miss Parkinson,' said Dumbledore upon arrival at their table. 'I trust this evening finds you well?'

They both looked up at him, acknowledging his demeanour and realising immediately he hadn't come to exchange mild pleasantries.

'What's the matter, Professor?' asked Hermione, without missing a beat.

'I don't quite know how to say this.' Dumbledore's expression was grave and he sighed so deeply that the rise of his chest wasn't only noticeable but impossible to ignore.

Hermione and Pansy glanced across the table at one another, fearing the worst. Suddenly that goodbye they received only a short while ago seemed momentous in both intent and effect. Why else would they be on the receiving end of a visit from the seldom seen Headmaster of Hogwarts? Something had happened and Hermione, who had seen more of Draco than anyone else, couldn't help but let her mind wander to a certain unsettling encounter in the infirmary, and the horror she had seen there.

'What's happened to him?' Pansy got to her feet and looked the ancient headmaster square in the eye. 'Tell me he's okay.'

That scar on his wrist flashed over and over before Hermione's eyes. Flesh so white it stood out against even his pale skin, a stretch of scar tissue raised to the touch. The only visible memento of the day Draco Malfoy tried to kill himself. And though she was sure that since it had happened many, many people had seen it, was she the only one who remembered it? Was she the only one left unobliviated and therefore able to reach out and help prevent such a horrific incidence from recurring.

Her breath caught in the back of her throat and stayed there for a very long moment. She realised that perhaps as Draco's only hope at salvation, and the only person that would ever truly love him, she had given up far too soon; if only she had persevered, despite everything, and always kept outstretched her helping hand. Perhaps then Dumbledore wouldn't be standing beside her, waiting to deliver the news that she was sure would have a tellingly monumental effect on the rest of her life.

She wondered how she would react if indeed her worst fears were to come true. She was an awful liar, and she worried she wouldn't be able to mask her own guilt. Knowing she was the only one who could have saved that hopeless, lost little boy, and that ultimately she had abandoned him when he needed her most. And she had called him a monster?

'I'm afraid,' Dumbledore began, the deep resonation that was characteristic of his tone only adding to the already solemn situation. 'That Draco Malfoy is gone.'

'Gone?!' Hermione choked out, even as she felt her chest constrict, her airways becoming tighter still. 'No... that can't be true.'

'Unfortunately it is, Miss Granger.'

Then, without warning, Hermione began to cry. And when she realised this, felt the moisture on her cheeks, the sensation only intensified, and she found herself sobbing uncontrollably. Maybe it was because she knew that it was her fault. Maybe it was because she knew few others would shed a tear. Or maybe it was because she was selfish, and never stopped believing that one day they may still have their happy ending.

Hermione reached out for Pansy's hand and gave it a strong squeeze. Unbeknownst to either of them, Dumbledore was staring, overwhelmed by the scene playing out before him.

'I know you are both close with Mr Malfoy, I understand that, but I must confess to being _bewildered _by your reactions.'

Apparently that was far too insensitive a comment for Pansy, who instead of crying had chosen to stare fixedly at an ornament on the far side of the room. She got to her feet, wagged a finger in Dumbledore's face and cried, 'Don't you have a heart?!'

Dumbledore frowned, gave a nod and replied, 'I assure you, Miss Parkinson, that I do; and I can understand you being upset at the situation. But Mister Malfoy has only left the castle. It's not as if you'll never see him again.'

Pansy was already looking at Dumbledore, but her eyes grew suddenly wide at the realisation. Likewise, Hermione stood and stepped closer to Dumbledore, wearing her own dumfounded expression. She didn't hesitate for even a moment and reached out for a handful of Dumbledore's colourful robe.

'What did you say?' she asked quietly, as if over expressing herself would result in cruel reality crashing down around her ears.

Dumbledore smiled, despite himself. 'It seems there's been a big misunderstanding, and for that I sincerely apologise. I came here to tell you that Mr Malfoy approached me and gave me this note for you, Miss Granger. He then followed that with a rather quaint gesture with his middle finger, before informing me that as he is seventeen, and legally an adult, he will be leaving Hogwarts, never to return. I had no choice but to let him walk away.'

It was like finally Hermione could breathe again. And though she was still crying, it wasn't because her heart was torn in two. It was because after _that_ you would have to be inhuman not to cry. She literally sighed her relief and gave Pansy's hand another squeeze, as relief washed over the both of them.

The irony was that the news of Draco leaving Hogwarts, which under usual circumstances would have upset her, was by comparison exhilarating. Had there been no misunderstanding she certainly wouldn't be smiling, but to have Draco returned to her, despite never having really left, was nothing short of a godsend. He may have left the building, but he was alive and well.

'One more thing, before I go; the note, Miss Granger.'

Dumbledore smiled at them both then went off on his merry way, humming a tune that Hermione vaguely recalled hearing years ago on a television advert for toilet paper. She pocketed the note, and when Pansy asked if she wanted privacy she waved away her concerns and urged her to stay in the Great Hall, so that together they could enjoy what was left of the evening.

It was only when she was all alone in her bedroom that night, wearing her pyjamas and tucked comfortably beneath her duvet, that she finally let her gaze rest for more than a nanosecond on the scrap of parchment. She sucked in as much air as her lungs would allow and then began to read what she supposed Draco Malfoy couldn't say to her face.

_Granger,_

_The beloved are the most miserable of all._

_I know._

_Draco._

* * *

[AN: That's it, guys. Wash Away is officially over!

I would like to thank each and every one of you that has shown even a passing interest in my story. To those that have reviewed, I cannot stress enough how you are the driving force behind my motivation here. I will always write (as I consider myself, above all else, a writer) but all my life I've been easily distracted by any manner of things; ultimately this means that if my many stories and random scribblings were children then they would have developed (because of me) severe abandonment issues. Your support and your kind words never fail to bring a smile to my face; and you are to thank for helping me see this story, and this first chapter of my Dramione saga, through to conclusion. Thank you so, so much. And to those of you who read and didn't review, as I've said before—I appreciate you a great deal too. That you're enjoying my work, albeit quietly, means a great deal to me.

Before I talk about the sequel, I want to offer a quick apology regarding the lateness of this final chapter: it's been on my computer, written for well over a month! But before you bombard me with abuse, let me explain: I couldn't post it until I decided upon Draco's note to Hermione, because that to me is itself this story's epilogue. Maybe to some of you it doesn't look much, but I'm incredibly proud of those twelve words. Because they are Draco as you know him; they are this story, as you've read; and they are the future, as you'll see.

The sequel itself is to be called Memory Gospel, and though it is a direct continuation of this story very big changes will be made. Looking back on this story, which I am honestly very proud of, sometimes pains me. I see lost potential everywhere. Without giving the sequel's plot away (because fans of this story will love what is to come) I want to state my intention to develop a more complete, more fulfilling narrative. Basically, that is me saying that here I skimped out on a few things; not necessarily because of laziness, but sometimes that minimalistic approach just takes hold. Memory Gospel, I hope, will read more like a novel, whereas I always thought Wash Away read like a series of interrelated short stories. It will be longer, but it's more about me stepping into the shoes of an author. A real author. I one day want to be published, and while obviously I don't want Memory Gospel itself to be published, I want it to be my first real attempt at a novel. Again, I don't want to give too much away, and I know I'm blathering, but expect something different. Expect to be surprised. Expect a significant departure from Wash Away.

Also, as I've stated, Memory Gospel will be plot driven. Wash Away is more a character study (although I'm still making myself sound like a very lazy writer), and so I want to bring the entire story together using more literature appropriate means. There will be as just as much character development (and all the other things that make Wash Away the story it is) as there is here, and the plot will work alongside it to deliver to you a story that I hope far exceeds what I've created here. Work on the story begun long ago, and it is far more fleshed out than Wash Away; expect the prologue to come within the next few weeks; I hope it's worth the wait.

If any of you have any questions then please fire away. About me, about this story, about the sequel, about Draco, about Hermione, about their relationship, about Pansy's irrational fear of Tequila... about ANYTHING! I want to hear what you have to say, and I will do my best to answer any questions you might have. I love receiving feedback, but I also love being able to give feedback on your feedback. So don't be afraid to ask.

Once more, thank you for reading. It's been a pleasure sharing this with you.

Until next time.

Greenway]


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